by Cheryl Holt
He queried, "Phillip, is there something you need to tell me?"
Before Phillip could reply, Olivia pleaded, "Please, Phillip. This is not the time."
"I should say not!" Margaret huffed. "And it will never be the time, so I advise that you consider your modest station and position before you speak out of turn and humiliate both yourself and the earl."
How fascinating! Margaret knew about their affair. Was he the sole person who'd had no clue?
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"Olivia is twenty-three, Countess," Phillip pointed out. "You have no authority over her."
"She will do as I bid her."
"No I won't." Olivia asserted herself. "You've always led me about, but after these ... these ... affronts to Helen and Winnie, there's no opinion you could offer that I would deem to be valid." She regarded him, her smile a tad tremulous. "I'm sorry, Edward, but I can't marry you. I never should have accepted your proposal. Somehow, she tricked us into this, and when it was occurring that night in my bedchamber, I hadn't the courage to refuse you. So I'm doing it now, I'm sure it will save us decades of grief."
"You can't do this, Olivia!" Margaret yelled. "You absolutely cannot!"
"It's not up to you," Olivia said. She was wearing the gold band he'd slipped onto her finger during the abbreviated ceremony, and she removed it and gave it to him.
Upon witnessing what she'd done, Margaret wailed, "I wash my hands of you! I simply wash my hands of you!"
She stormed out, and in stunned silence, they watched her go.
Edward dropped the ring into the pocket of his vest, even as he wondered if they'd stopped soon enough. Were they already wed? How far did one have to advance through the vows before the union was established?
For months, perhaps years, he foresaw wrangling with the church and the law to have it straightened out, but he was unconcerned.
He was free! Free to do whatever he wanted. Free to marry or not. Free to choose another bride. Free to ... to ... pick Winnie, whom he should have selected from the very beginning, titles and blueblood and the peerage be damned!
Evaluating her, he recalled how outraged she'd been
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for Rebecca, how she'd fought to get at Margaret, how he'd had to restrain her. She was a wildcat, a tigress, an Amazon, and she could be his if he was brave enough to reach out and grab for her.
As a commoner, she was the antithesis of everything he'd thought he'd wanted. She'd committed the inconceivable; she'd birthed a child out of wedlock. Did any of it matter?
The question surged through him, and the thunderous answer was so clear that he was chagrined he'd felt the need to ponder it. They had both made mistakes, had both sinned and erred, and by tying the knot with her, he could right so many wrongs.
He could love her and cherish her, could provide a stable home for her abused daughter, could give her many more children of her own, who would have the benefits of his wealth and status.
What a merry life they were destined to have!
"Let's have a round of brandies," he suggested. "I believe we could all use one, and there are a few things I'd like to get off my chest." He glared at Phillip. "And there are a few things you need to divulge, as well."
A sullen crew, his companions loitered, milling about, and it took several minutes to locate the butler, to have the libation poured and served. Just as he tipped the rim of the glass to his lips, a haunting, keening lament could be heard, wafting down from the upper floors.
Listening, then scowling, Olivia mentioned, "That sounds like Margaret."
Exasperated, Phillip said, "I'd better check it out."
He raced off, Olivia and Winnie hot on his heels.
******************
Margaret sneaked to the rear stairwell. Thankfully, the staff had herded the guests outside, so she hadn't run
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into a single soul who would have mortified her by asking either what was being discussed behind closed doors, or when the ceremony would resume.
Had anyone dared interrogate her, she was too furious to respond.
Winnie! The strumpet! To have brought her disgraceful urchin to Salisbury! What was the woman thinking? Had she no pride? No shame?
Likely, she assumed the earl would support her, and her waif, too.
Margaret harumphed. She knew the way a man like Edward Paxton would support Winnie. She would have to earn her keep, flat on her back, with her legs spread.
Was that the existence she envisioned for herself? To be naught more than Edward's concubine until he tired of her? What then? Where would she go? What would she do?
Ultimately, he'd toss her over. She'd be alone and destitute, and Margaret would be damned if she'd aid the pitiful Jezebel again.
It was marvelous to be shed of her! She didn't have to feign friendship. Winnie would have to grow up and walk her path without Margaret's assistance.
As would Olivia.
"Stupid, stupid girl!" she muttered as she left the stairs and stomped toward the sleeping chambers.
Olivia was about to learn a cruel lesson: A female had no power, and no protection, but what she could garner for herself. While parents lied to girls and told them that matrimony and a spouse would seal their futures, the reality was that a woman couldn't rely on luck, fate, or a husband. No one would coddle you. You had to fend for yourself.
Two worthless, impoverished husbands had taught her that painful fact.
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Life hadn't slapped Olivia in the face yet, but it would. Olivia was young, a dreamer who presumed that everything would always be resolved for the best.
Well, she'd find out the value of casting her lot with some indigent, illegitimate workingman. He'd had the audacity to claim he was the earl's son! Of all the nerve!
Olivia could have her coarse scoundrel. She could birth him a gaggle of yapping brats, and reside with him in humble squalor, where there was never enough cash to buy food for their hungry bellies.
When she'd had her fill of poverty and strife, she'd crawl to London, appealing to Margaret for help, but she'd discover how imprudent she'd been.
Olivia could beg on street corners, could starve, become a vagrant. Margaret cared not.
It was time to focus on Penelope.
Praise be, she had a daughter who understood the importance of money and security. Penny might fuss and stew, but she had inherited Margaret's shrewdness and bold manner of carrying on.
With a bit of pressure, she'd come around to Margaret's point of view.
Previously, she'd deemed Penny too immature and headstrong to be a wife, but there was no alternative. Olivia had betrayed them, so they needed to change course.
They would journey to London at once, so that they could commence their quest for a spousal candidate. There had to be an available rich gentleman who would sustain them, and Margaret intended to ferret him out. Very, very soon.
Where was Penelope? What was she up to?
During the morning's nuptial preparations, Margaret had been busy, so she couldn't be bothered with Penelope. What with berating the sloppy servants, and battling
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Olivia to ensure she attended, Margaret, herself, had entered the matrimonial salon almost fifteen minutes late. Penny hadn't been present, and by then, Margaret couldn't search for her.
She peeked inside her bedchamber, hoping to espy Penny, but she wasn't there, and Margaret's temper flared. Within the hour, she wanted to vacate the premises, and she wasn't about to waste a second hunting for her recalcitrant, wayward daughter.
A maid strolled by, and Margaret ordered her to pack their bags, then she strode to Penny's room. Just as she reached it, a door opened farther down. In dismay, she saw Vicar Summers and his wife exiting a bedchamber, and she could barely smother a groan. They were the very last people Margaret wanted to encounter.
Mrs. Summers was sickly, and the housekeeper had arranged for a room where she could rest if she was fatigued, and it galled Margaret tha
t Edward would allow such fraternization.
What was the world coming to when such ordinary folk shared space with their betters?
"Countess!" the vicar called, waving. "Oh, Countess!"
Margaret yearned to pretend she hadn't seen him, but there was no way she could. "Yes, Vicar Summers, what is it?"
"Have you spoken with the earl? What's to be done?"
"I have no idea. You'll have to ask him."
The couple approached until they were next to her.
"Quite the peculiar ceremony, eh?" The vicar was eager to dawdle and gossip, but Margaret would have bitten off her tongue before uttering a word.
"Yes, quite," she said glacially. "I'm in a hurry. If you'll excuse me?"
"Certainly, Countess. Pardon us."
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Desperate for privacy, Margaret turned the knob on the door and, with more force than was warranted, shoved at it, and it flew back.
Margaret blinked and blinked. Though her perception was unimpeded, she couldn't process the spectacle before her.
Penny and Mr. Blaine? Naked? Together? Just before noon?
"Sweet Jesu!" the vicar exclaimed. "Stand aside, Mrs. Summers! Shield your eyes!" He jostled his wife away from the threshold, sparing her the gruesome sight.
Empty liquor bottles were strewn about, and a pungent smoke was in the air that created a haze and gave the area an illusory ambiance. Penny was on the bed, the blankets tangled around her legs, while Mr. Blaine loafed with his shirt wadded up to conceal his privy parts.
There could be no dispute as to what they'd been doing. From their guilty looks, it wasn't their initial tryst, either.
A terrible ringing began to clang through her head. Her vision clouded with a strange reddish hue.
This was where Penny had been? This was whom she'd chosen?
A dangerous, shrill madness tore through her, and suddenly, she couldn't predict what might happen.
"Mr. Blaine!" the vicar barked. "What have you done?"
"I can explain," the hapless nude oaf contended.
"I don't suppose any explanation is necessary," the vicar countered. 'The situation speaks loudly for itself."
"Mother," Penny chimed in, sitting up straighter and pushing her hair over her shoulder, exposing her breasts, her nipples. "Guess what? Mr. Blaine and I are to be married."
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"The sooner the better, I'd say," the vicar agreed.
"No, no, really," Blaine attempted to interject, "not marriage. We hadn't contemplated mar—"
"Mr. Blaine!" the vicar scolded. "Don't make the debacle any worse than it already is."
The roar in Margaret's head grew deafening, so excruciating that it felt as if her skull might split in two. She started to scream and scream and scream, a high, piercing wail that had people covering their ears, and servants and guests rushing in to discern the cause.
Rabid, delirious, she sped across to the fireplace, seized an iron poker, and ran to Freddy Blaine. She let loose, attacking him with the ample strength of her fury, beating him about the face and genitalia, until he was a bloody, crumpled heap on the floor.
It took the stablemaster, along with three burly footmen, to pull her off and wrestle her to the ground.
******************
Rebecca snuggled into the bed that had been provided to her. The mattress was stuffed, plush, and she sank down, the softness surrounding her. The sheets were clean and smooth, and they smelled so fresh. She couldn't stop sniffing them.
Someone had found her a nightgown. It was a little large, but the fabric was white, and very silky, with pink flowers stitched along the neckline and cuffs, and a matching pink ribbon in the front that tied in a pretty bow. She couldn't ever remember touching a garment so precious, and she'd been surprised that they'd permitted her to wear it.
She'd had a bath! In a tub, with hot water and rose-scented soap! Winnie had helped her, had even scrubbed her hair, then they'd lounged by the fire, with Winnie
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brushing out the snarled strands and talking in that dear, gentle way she had.
Rebecca hadn't worked up the courage to refer to Winnie as Mother. The notion was too intimidating, a beloved symbol that could be snatched away. She couldn't embrace the concept of a parent, for she couldn't bear the possibility that her mother might somehow be lost to her.
Too much had been given, too much promised, in too limited a period. She was wary of trust, frightened to hope. Winnie was splendid, composed and refined, and everything that Rebecca had fantasized her mother might be like. So she would be cautious, brave, but prepared for any eventuality.
Tears flooded her eyes, and she lay, gazing up at the canopy, the four posts at the corners. It was the type of bed a princess might sleep in, and below the blankets, she pinched herself, welcoming the pain, needing to affirm that she wasn't dreaming. She was worried that, at any moment, she would awaken to find that none of it was real.
Beside her, Helen lay, quiet and motionless as usual, though Rebecca could sense the rapid flow of thoughts cascading through her mind. Many images and ideas flitted by, but they were so disorganized and fleeting that Rebecca couldn't decipher them.
Helen was confused, as appalled by their adventures as Rebecca was herself, but now that she was with Olivia once again, she was calming and beginning to feel safe.
Rebecca didn't know if she felt safe, yet. It would take constant reassurance and convincing, but she was anxious to believe.
Winnie and Olivia had tucked them in, had chattered about plans that needed to be made. The two women
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had been short on specifics, but had vowed—over and over—that all would be well in the end.
Rebecca didn't understand what had occurred, though her unexpected appearance had wreaked upheaval for many. Olivia's wedding to the earl had been postponed. Winnie's cousin, Margaret, had gone mad, plunged into a state of insanity that had everyone in a dither.
There were so many secrets swirling about, that she couldn't keep track of them. Servants were clucking their tongues and repeating astonishing tales, house-guests were packing and departing with odd haste.
She'd given up trying to figure it out. She merely wanted tranquillity to prevail, so that the adults could move beyond the bizarre day and achieve some peace. Then maybe they would have the opportunity to decide if they were glad she'd arrived.
Her belly was full, her body relaxed, and for the first time in a long time, she wasn't scared. She shut her eyes, and offered up a prayer, imploring that the earl let them stay at the estate. That they be allowed to remain forever.
She rolled to her side, and Helen did, too, so that they were facing each other. Under the covers, they clasped hands.
"I like it here," she said, but Helen didn't respond. She simply stared, absorbing Rebecca's every word. "Everyone is very kind. My mother is pretty and nice, and she seems to want me. This is a good place for us. I'm sure of it."
The tears that had threatened started to fall, and on witnessing them, Helen frowned, perplexed by what they meant.
"I was so afraid," Rebecca confessed. "When we had to leave the orphanage, I didn't know what would become of us, or how I would care for you."
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The recent trauma overwhelmed her, and she cried in earnest, so many tears dripping down that she had to use the sheet to wipe them away.
She could picture that busy street corner, how the crowd had parted, and she'd turned to see her mother and Phillip walking toward her.
Miracles did happen. Dreams did come true.
Squeezing Helen's fingers, she gulped down the swell of emotion that made it difficult to speak or breathe. She now had the chance to be a normal girl, who could grow up to be a fine young lady, who had a family that loved her, that would cherish and treasure her.
It was what she'd always craved, more than she'd ever conceived she would have, and her wonderful, terrifying future dangled before her. She was determined to reac
h for it, to hold it close and make it her own.
"My mother has arranged for me to have some new dresses," she whispered. "The seamstress is visiting tomorrow, to measure me. I can pick any colors I want." The prospect was so delicious, and she was so fearful it would never result, that she voiced the desire aloud, hoping that by doing so, she could force it to transpire. "Master Phillip says he intends to buy me a horse, and teach me to ride." She smiled. "And ... he's going to get you a pony!"
Helen smiled, too.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Winnie stood by the window, staring out at the darkened lawn of the estate. A cool evening breeze rustled the curtains, and she relished how it swept across her heated skin.
From the moment in London, when Phillip had passed her the folder that detailed Rebecca's whereabouts, she'd been feverish. Naught could calm the tumultuous beating of her heart, or the frantic swirling of her thoughts. The incidents of the trying day here at Salisbury certainly hadn't extinguished the fire burning within. She was weary, distraught, and still furious.
When she recalled the duplicity Margaret had practiced, and Rebecca's lost childhood, she felt ill.
She'd always fancied herself a rather smart individual, so how had she been so stupid? Why had she been so ready to believe Margaret's stories about Rebecca?
Had she wanted to know the truth? Or was she a coward? Out of fear and shame, had she abandoned Rebecca to her fate?
The questions were eating at her.
A sound emanated from the adjoining room. The door between the chambers was open, and Helen and Rebecca snuggled together in the big bed. She went to check on them, as she'd been doing incessantly since she'd tucked them in.
They were nestled under the covers, looking like two little angels, and though they were fine, Winnie fussed
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with the blankets, adjusting and tugging on them so that she would have an excuse to linger.
