Nay, you convinced yourself that a nobleman who rarely left London would take you there, and you could have explored the museums and taken art classes and had the life you dreamed of outside this place.
Martha’s throat convulsed.
Mayhap the world was right about her after all. Mayhap she was the whore they all professed her to be, just not for the reasons they believed. She’d sold her soul, freedom, and happiness with the hopes of leaving this place and exploring the world away.
Only to find nothing had been worth the hell she’d endured. His piteously poor ability to converse on anything. His fetid, brandy-scented breath. His touch.
Martha’s gaze caught in the lead windowpane over the top of her canvas. Her sad, bitter smile reflected back, an empty echo of the one that had once come so easily.
Do not think of him… Do not…
Her stomach churned, and her entire body went clammy.
You are my wife, and I am permitted these liberties. Now part your legs. Unless you’d like to fight me again…?
Martha focused on breathing, counting the seconds for each inhalation and exhalation. Even with the year and a half that had passed since she’d suffered that special hell, the horror of it still lingered.
His ghost haunted her in this cottage she’d been born to and resided in for the whole of her twenty-eight years.
If she let him, he’d rob her of what remained. Martha firmed her jaw, and her resolve strengthened. Viscount Waters had taken her virtue, good name, pride, and happiness. She’d be damned if she ceded anything else to that demon rotting in hell alongside his master, Satan.
“Enough,” she said into the quiet, the sound of her own voice dislodging the useless self-pitying. Bending down, she resumed her work and swiped the tiny portion of her broken charcoal across the canvas. For there was something he’d left her. Something good. The only thing good and wonderful that had ever happened to her—her son.
Frederick was the joy that had come from great darkness, and he was the reason she hadn’t crumpled under the hell of her existence.
Focusing on the focal point of the sketch, the one that served as the greatest contention between her and the commissioner of the art piece, Martha rubbed the tip of her index finger over the front façade of Oxley Manor. She blended the charcoal, softening the shadows, creating a more realistic, subtle gradation.
The past was the past, and every lesson a young woman could learn had been learned. A person couldn’t control the past. They could only look toward controlling their own future. Rejuvenated, Martha lost herself in her work, that great equalizer of pain and heartache.
Martha sketched until the gray charcoal crumpled to dust in her fingers, and she moved on to the color spectrum of greens. Until Surrey’s most prominent household in all its age-old splendor stared back, a perfect replica of that focal point of her smallest corner of the world. All the world receded, so that only her artwork remained.
A lone knock sounded at the door.
Martha gasped, and her green charcoal skidded over the page. Who…? She stared at the door a moment and waited. For another knock? For someone to announce themselves? For something to happen.
She gave her head a shake. “Hearing things,” she muttered into the quiet. Martha gathered another piece of charcoal. Dusting off the pad of her thumb along her skirts, she smeared a mistake into the page until it was perfectly faded and part of the sketch.
Rap-rap-rap.
Her gaze went to the doorway. No…she’d not imagined it. There it was again. Who in blazes…? No one visited her.
That was, none who were honorable. Numerous men from the village had come with indecent propositions to make. Stalking over to the door, Martha lingered at the window overlooking her gardens and squinted, trying to make out the shape of the murky shadow lingering there.
The fancily attired gentleman consulted his timepiece, all the while tapping his other hand against his leg.
Martha puzzled her brow. Squire Chernow? Her father’s closest friend, the squire was also the only person in High Town who’d commissioned work from Martha. The older gentleman turned, as if to leave. Martha rushed for the handle and drew the door open. “Squire Chernow,” she greeted. “How do you do?”
“Martha, my girl,” he said cheerfully, his gaunt cheeks florid with their usual crimson color. “I’ve come… about the sketch.” He peered past her shoulder, and she followed his stare. “Mrs. Chernow is growing impatient.”
Mrs. Chernow, the village gossip who wasn’t content unless everyone was discontent. Her stomach dropped. “I’ve not quite finished. I believe we said I have until tomorrow to complete the final rendering.”
He reached out a gloved hand and patted away those ramblings. “No. No. I’ve not come to collect. Rather, I’ve come to finalize several details about the arrangement.”
With just one patron, and still seeking employment from the posts she responded to in London, she couldn’t afford to offend him, and yet, life had taught her to be wary of all men. She drew the door panel closer, shielding her modest residence from his stare. “Perhaps we should speak tomorrow regarding the piece.” When her son was about. “Frederick is due to return inside,” she lied, tacking that on as a reminder of not only her status as a mother, but also that she was not alone.
Squire Chernow widened his grin. “But he’s not returned yet, and with him otherwise occupied, this should prove the ideal time to discuss, no?”
He persisted with the same dogged determination he’d had in the late-night debates he’d engaged in with her father.
The memory of the bond they’d once shared weakened her defenses. Reluctantly, she drew the panel open.
Squire Chernow sailed past her, removing his gloves as he walked. Uninvited, he made his way to her small workstation and assessed the page clipped in place at the top of the easel. “Hmm,” he murmured, slapping his gloves together as he contemplated the sketch.
Hmm. It was the noncommittal utterance she’d come to find from all his past visits indicated displeasure.
Panic knocked away at her chest. His payment would not come until he approved the piece, and every day she spent attempting to create the rendering of his property was time… lost.
“You don’t like it,” she said flatly.
“No. No. It isn’t that, my girl,” he said and reached back to give her shoulder an awkward pat. “It’s simply… the front façade. It’s not quite right.”
She frowned. The front façade remained the area in question they’d now debated for the past two, now three, sketches. “I’ve not quite finished, but the ivy”—she gestured to the green charcoal, nearly perfect in its shading—“does reflect the hues of your manor.”
“In the summer.”
“The summer,” she repeated dumbly.
He wagged a finger under her nose. “This is a seasonal piece.”
Martha called forth every shred of patience she’d mastered through the years. “We agreed that, given Mrs. Chernow’s favorite time in High Town is, in fact, the summer when her gardens are most vibrant, she wished the piece to reflect that.”
All jovial warmth dissipated. “I changed my mind.”
He’d changed his mind? That was… it? There was no consideration for the time she’d put into a project she’d not yet received any recompense for? And would not receive payment until he offered his final approval. But then, that was the way of the world for a woman: at the mercy and whim of a capricious man who’d toy with her time and efforts. Still, regardless of how she felt in this moment about this particular man, she needed his coin. And she hated the desperation that had held her captive since her world had been upended. With purposeful strides, Martha stalked over to the leather trunk at the corner of her makeshift workstation. “I’ve the earliest rendering,” she explained, lifting the lid and drawing out the first attempt she’d made. “I can resume my work on—”
“I don’t want that one,” he said like a petulant child. Ho
w had she ever failed to note that incessant whine? “I want… a new one,” he went on, stuffing his gloves into his jacket front in a clear display of one who had no intention of leaving. “But then, mayhap this is simply a waste of both our time, Marti.”
At both the insult and the familiar use of her Christian name, her back went up. “Squire Chernow?”
“Your father sang your praises, but you’ve never been that talented.” The barb, so casually tossed, found its unwanted mark upon the part of her that took pride in her sketches.
Her art represented the one accomplishment she’d felt capable in. Even as devoted a mother as she’d tried to be, she saw all the ways she’d failed her son. Everything that she’d been unable to provide or do. As such, her need for funds be damned, she’d not be disparaged by him… not in her own home. “I believe we are finished here,” she said evenly. “I’m afraid I’ve been unable to adequately capture that which you’d hoped for.”
She took a step toward the door, but with a startling speed for one of his age, the wiry gentleman hurried into her path, blocking her. The warning bells chiming at the back of her mind blared wildly. “I’ve offended you,” he said quickly. “That was not my intention. I only sought to speak the truth.” He slid closer, and she retreated. “I am worried after you, Marti.”
Aside from her son, no one worried about her or her future. Her life was nothing more than fodder for gossips. “You needn’t worry. I am doing fine,” she lied.
“But you’re not,” he persisted, continuing his approach. “Surely you see that with your father gone and your prospects what they are, you’ll not survive, Marti.” At last, the squire stopped.
“I don’t see that,” she said crisply. Moving away from him, she began cleaning up her workstation, putting distance between them. She saw how perilously close she was to faltering, to being crushed by what life had become for her and her son. And mayhap if it weren’t for Frederick, she would have given in to that despair, but as long as there was her son, there was hope. “I’m sorry we were unable to come to a consensus in terms of your piece. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
He gave her a pitying look. “It doesn’t have to be this way, Marti. You toiling during the day with running this”—he glanced around the cottage and curled his lip in a sneer that said louder than words his ill opinion of the only home she’d known—“place. You can enjoy the material comforts you once knew,” he murmured, walking the same path she’d just traveled. “And security. Surely you want that once more? Hmm?” Her skin crawled. “If not for you, then for your son.” He stretched a hand toward her, and she slapped his palm away.
Of course that had been the only reason he’d commissioned a piece. Hadn’t she learned firsthand that all men were self-serving bastards with an eye on nothing more than their pleasures?
“You’ve overstayed your welcome, Squire Chernow,” she said coolly. “If you would?” She pointed past him to the arched doorway.
“You’ve not even heard my proposal, Marti,” he chided.
“I don’t need to.” She’d heard the undertones, and that had been enough.
“No man will marry you,” he went on anyway. “Your work will not sustain you, but you can enjoy a comfortable existence… as my mistress.” A pleased smile formed on his thin lips as he smoothed his lapels and stared expectantly at her.
Rage stung her veins. Why, he expected she should be grateful at receiving his indecent proposal? And why shouldn’t he? The world took her for a whore anyway. “I’ll be no man’s mistress, Squire Chernow. Now, I really must insist you leave.” She stalked past him, a gasp escaping her as he caught the back of her dress.
Her heart pounded hard in her chest as she pulled out of his reach, but he retained his hold, drawing her closer.
“If you’d rather put on a show of offended sensibilities,” he whispered against her ear, “I will play the game, kitten.” He roved a hand along her hip, just as another man had before.
And yet, that man she’d foolishly given a legal right to that act. Panic and loathing roiled in her gut. She’d never allow any other man that right.
Fight him. Fight him. “Release me,” she ordered in shockingly steady tones.
“You do know the village hasn’t already run you off because of the kindness I’ve insisted the villagers show you. That can all change.”
Her throat worked.
“After all, you are a bigamist, Marti. Scandalous stuff.” He clucked like a chicken. “I expect it could be a good deal worse for that boy of yours.”
Frederick. Frederick, who had remained when his sisters had been sent away to escape and, because of it, who had not been spared the shame that went with being a bigamist’s by-blow.
“Ultimately, I possess everything of value in this village, and you are the prettiest of the lasses, aren’t you?” He placed his mouth near her right lobe.
She squeezed her lashes shut. The biting scent of basil from whatever meal he’d consumed flooded her nostrils. I am going to be ill… Through the nausea, she wrestled for control of her panic. “I’ll not be any man’s whore.”
“Ah, but you already have been, no?” he asked, almost jovial. “We will be very good together, and you will be very grateful. This is the right decision, Marti,” he lauded, like a proud papa over a daughter’s cleverness.
In the end, salvation came in the unlikeliest of forms.
The door burst open. “Mother, it’s starting to—” Frederick’s words trailed off, and his suspicious gaze moved from his mother to the man with an inappropriate hold upon her. His little brow furrowed. “—snow,” he finished. “What are you doing?”
The squire removed his grip. “Master Frederick,” he greeted with the same jovial tones he’d used when he’d once visited Martha’s father and ruffled the top of her son’s head.
Where a warm greeting had once fallen easily from Frederick’s lips, now he took a step closer to his mother and said nothing. “I asked what you were doing?” he asked with a bluntness only a child could manage.
She positioned herself behind her son and rested a hand on his shoulder. “We were just discussing the squire’s sketch.” Over the top of Frederick’s head, she leveled a hard stare on the squire. “The squire was just leaving, however.”
The older man drew out his gloves. “Of course. Until our next meeting.” He sketched a bow and then, tugging on those fine leather articles, he left.
“I don’t like him,” Frederick said before the door had even clicked shut behind the squire, drawing away from her. “I don’t like how he looks at you.”
His gaze, more jaded when before there had only ever been innocence, ripped a fresh hole inside her heart. She gave him a light squeeze. “We still must respect him.” After all, he had influence enough in Surrey to see that the village was even more hostile to them.
“I don’t have to respect anyone. He’s nothing to me or you.”
He was, though. He was the one who owned their cottage and could turn them out. For that was coming. She knew it. He’d grown bolder, and she’d learned enough to know that no man was truly capable of charity. They ultimately wanted something and would take it. And if it was not freely given, they’d secure a woman’s capitulation in any manner they saw fit, propriety and the law be damned.
Frederick stared accusatorily back with so much concern—too much concern in his ten-year-old eyes. Concern that no child should be made to feel for his mother.
Martha gestured for him to come close.
Where he once would have rushed to her side and with a kiss for her cheek, this time he stood planted where he was, his arms folded angrily at his chest, his eyes snapping with defiance.
“Frederick,” she began, going over to him. She sank to a knee. “He owns this property.” She wiped a bit of dirt from his cheek.
He swatted at her hand. “We’ll go somewhere else. I don’t like it much here anymore.” He’d only ever loved this Surrey countryside. Her throat moved. Hope transfo
rmed her son’s previously troubled gaze. “And then Iris and Creda can come with us.”
Martha froze as those names ripped through her heart like an arrow.
Iris and Creda. Always joyous, always mischievous, her firstborn girls had been the first light to come from the darkest of marriages. “Oh, sweet,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “Your sisters are in a better place.” Anywhere that Martha was not was a better place. “And this is where we’ll remain.” Forever. Because she wasn’t so foolish as to believe an unmarried woman and her young son with limited funds and no prospects could start afresh somewhere else.
“I didn’t like how close he was to you,” Frederick stated flatly, and mortified heat scorched her from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair.
“He was simply looking at the sketch I’d been working on for him,” she hurried to assure, brushing his unkempt locks back behind his ear. “Which… he did not like.” She tacked on that belated lie.
“He didn’t like your sketch?”
Warmth filled her breast. For the layers of cynicism and maturity Martha’s scandal had added to her child, his devotion to her artistic abilities had not wavered. “He didn’t.” The squire’s opinion on her art was far safer to discuss with Frederick than the lecherous gentleman’s dishonorable intentions.
Fire flashed in Frederick’s eyes. “Then he’s a fool. You are the best at sketching.”
She lightly cuffed him under the chin. “You are only partial because I’m your mama.”
“I’m not,” he said, color splotching his cheeks. “I just know that you’re the best.”
Martha tossed her arms around him and squeezed.
“Mother, stop,” he mumbled.
And that had been just one more way in which he’d been changed: Where he’d once been unabashed in his affections, now he rejected all maternal shows of warmth.
Coming to her feet, Martha resisted the urge to wipe another smudge of dirt from his cheek. “Go. Get yourself washed and changed for the evening.”
He’d turned to go when she registered that which had previously failed to escape her.
The Rogue Who Rescued Her Page 3
