by Cheryl Holt
“It wouldn’t surprise me. How about you?”
“No, I wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest.”
Catherine went over to the sideboard. When she’d first sat down, she’d been ravenous, and she’d gobbled a helping of eggs and bacon. She filled her plate again with more eggs, but also with a scone and a slice of bread slathered with jam.
“If you had a dowry,” Abigail asked her, “would you run to London and start hunting for a husband?”
Catherine shot her a caustic glare. “No. I don’t want a husband. Ever.”
“I used to think I’d hate to marry, but then I met Alex.”
“Maybe you snagged the last decent man in the world.”
“I can’t believe he’s the only one out there, and in the beginning he wasn’t all that stellar of a choice. He had so many scandals dragging along behind him that they almost pulled him under. I still can’t figure out how he convinced me to have him.”
“I can, and in my book he is the lucky one.”
“I’m very lucky too,” Abigail said.
“For all his dirty laundry, he’s cleaned up nicely.”
“Yes, I’m having an enormous amount of success with molding him into an honorable person. At least he’s given up his penchant to keep mistresses.”
Catherine snorted. “He’d better have. If I ever found out he was cheating on you, I’d have to commit murder.”
Abigail laughed, watching as Catherine dug into her food. It was a relief to see her appetite returning. Perhaps the steady meals at Wallace Downs would help to cure what ailed her.
“What shall we do today?” Catherine asked. “Are there more wedding plans we can work on?”
“I thought we could—”
Before Abigail could finish her sentence, Catherine sucked in a sharp breath and leapt from her chair.
“Would you excuse me?” she mumbled. “All of a sudden, I’m not feeling well. I must have eaten too fast.”
She dashed out, a hand clamped over her mouth. Alex was walking down the hall, and she raced by him so rapidly she nearly knocked him down.
“Good morning to you too, Catherine,” he grumbled as he entered the room. He raised a brow at Abigail. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I’m not sure.”
Abigail stared at the door through which Catherine had disappeared, and she was pondering Catherine’s pallor, her dizziness and bouts of nausea. The afternoon she’d arrived, she’d fainted in the front parlor, but she’d never been a swooning sort of female. What could have caused such a desperate reaction?
Could she be…? Might she be…?
No, it wasn’t possible. Was it? Catherine had described an innocent flirtation with Mr. Stanton. Could it have been more than that?
Might Mr. Stanton have pressed his attentions on Catherine against her will? He seemed like such an agreeable man, but who could guess what he was like deep down? Or could it have been a mutual relationship? Could Catherine have been freely seduced and left in a delicate condition? Catherine was so angry with Mr. Stanton. Could that be at the root of her fury?
No, no, she probably just had the flu, and at her foolishness Abigail scoffed and shook her head.
Of course Alex noticed. “What’s rolling around in that convoluted mind of yours?”
“It’s nothing,” she fibbed. “I’m merely contemplating all my chores.”
They enjoyed a lovely meal together, but then every minute she spent with him was lovely. They were finishing up when the housekeeper stopped in to request a private discussion. The woman had birthed ten children.
With a sinking heart, Abigail stepped out into the hall and heard a few words about Catherine she couldn’t bear to hear. She thanked the woman, then returned to the table. She must have looked morose because Alex clasped her wrist and tugged her onto his lap.
“What’s happened?” he inquired.
“How well do you know Mr. Stanton?”
“Kit? Just from school when we were boys. He’s from an old family, but they’ve fallen on hard times. His father and brother were wastrels.”
“Isn’t he engaged to be married?”
“Yes, he is. Why?”
“Because he might be on the road to becoming a father.” She slid away and stood. “I have to talk to my sister.”
“What about?” He scowled. “Uh, oh. Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Please tell me I don’t have to pound Kit Stanton into the ground.”
“Nobody is pounding anybody,” she sternly scolded.
“Unless they deserve it,” he dangerously replied.
He was renowned for his temper, and no matter what, Abigail wasn’t about to let him grow incensed over any issue. He motioned to the stairs. “Confer with your sister, then come down and apprise me of what you learn.”
“Wait here.”
“I won’t move. I promise.”
She trudged up to Catherine’s door, and she knocked once, then slipped inside without being summoned. She crossed the sitting room and went to the bedroom where Catherine was lying on the bed. Someone had placed a cloth over her eyes.
“Abigail, is that you?” she said as Abigail pulled up a chair.
“Yes, it’s me.”
She clutched her sister’s hand, both of them silent, lost in thought. British girls were so sheltered. Did Catherine suspect? Had the truth dawned on her?
“How are you feeling?” Abigail inquired.
“I was sick to my stomach, but I’m better now.”
“Good.” Abigail was silent for another minute, then she took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I have to ask you a question. Don’t be upset.”
“How could I ever be upset with you? What is it you wish to know?”
“Is there any chance you might be having a baby?”
“A…a…baby?” Catherine stammered. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Is there a bit more about your association with Mr. Stanton that you might have failed to mention?”
“A baby?” Catherine whipped the cloth away and sat up with a lurch. “You’re afraid I might be increasing?”
“I’m worried that might be it. Tell me. I won’t judge you.”
An expression of horrified realization swept over Catherine. She appeared alarmed and shocked, but lethally furious too.
“I’m not ill, am I?”
“No, I don’t believe you’re ill.”
“I will kill him,” Catherine muttered. “I will absolutely kill him, and when I go to the gallows to hang I will climb the stairs with a smile on my face.”
* * * *
“You have a visitor.”
“I have a visitor?”
“Yes. If you’ll come with me?”
Libby followed the matron out of her cell. She wasn’t a nun or a nurse or even a helper. She was more like a warden or a jailer. After Libby had arrived, she’d been locked in, and she’d become a prisoner who wasn’t free to leave.
Most of the girls in the facility didn’t want to be there and were being kept against their will. They were all anxious to sneak away and find a wayward boy whose parents had hidden him from them. For the most part, they’d misbehaved with young men who were either far above or below them in station so marriages would never occur.
Pregnancies would be suffered through, babies born, then yanked away and put up for adoption. Then…? The girls would return home—disgraced and forlorn—to various dire fates.
To her great relief, she didn’t have to fret about whether she was increasing—because she wasn’t. From talking to the other ruined maidens, she’d discovered it wasn’t possible. She was so unschooled in physical passion that she’d been clueless as to what sort of activity led to a child being created. She’d frequently engaged in naughty conduct with Nicholas, but not the kind that was necessary for procreation.
Apparently, he was a bit of a gentleman after all or perhaps he’d simply been t
oo smart to be caught in her nuptial trap.
“This is highly irregular,” her escort said.
“What is?”
“Having a visitor. You shouldn’t expect it to happen again. I’m not sure why it was permitted this time.”
Libby was guided out of the locked section of the building and into the offices at the front. She was shoved into a room, and as she stumbled and straightened she was stunned to see Bentley Turner standing over by the window.
In the short walk she’d just taken, she’d tried to imagine who her guest might be. Priscilla? No. Gertrude? No. Mr. Bolton? Definitely not. But Bentley Turner?
“Hello, Miss Markham.”
“Hello, Mr. Turner. This is a surprise.”
“I suspected it would be.” He glared at her jailer. “Could you shut the door, ma’am? I’d like some privacy while I speak to Miss Markham.”
“It’s not allowed. I have to stay and listen in.”
He sighed with aggravation. “Fine.”
Libby rudely gestured at the woman as if she was of no consequence. “Ignore her. She can’t hurt us. What brings you by? Did Mr. Bolton send you? Have you a message for me?”
“He didn’t send me. I came of my own accord.”
“Oh.”
There was a table with several chairs around it. He pulled one out and motioned to it. “Won’t you sit, Miss Markham?”
“Well…I suppose I can.” Flippantly, she added, “It’s not as if I’m busy this afternoon.”
She went over and plopped down. He didn’t sit too, but stood next to her. He appeared altered somehow. He was much older than she was, but she’d always been aware of their age difference so it wasn’t that. For once, he seemed important, confident, and unflappable in a crisis.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “You haven’t said, and I’m very nervous.”
“I stopped by Mr. Bolton’s house, and I was hoping to bump into you. When I realized you weren’t there, I bribed a footman to tell me where you were.”
“It’s nice to hear that someone was concerned about me.”
“I was. I was very concerned.”
An awkward silence developed. He’d always been sweet on her, and she’d always been horrid to him. She wasn’t certain why. Maybe it was because she’d been fixated on finding a husband who could provide excitement and entertainment.
She’d lived too many dreary years under her father’s cruel thumb, and her life with the Boltons had been much the same except without the whippings, lectures, or sermonizing. She’d been determined to obtain a better existence for herself so she’d been reckless, and she was paying the price.
Her solitary sojourn had left her wondering as to her choices. She hadn’t been making very good ones, but how could she? She was only eighteen, and she’d never gone anywhere or done anything. While growing up, she hadn’t had a single functional adult to supply sensible counsel. She felt stupid and alone and adrift.
“You’ve viewed me as a dolt,” Mr. Turner suddenly said.
“I never thought that,” she claimed, but of course she’d thought exactly that.
“You can admit it. I’m stuffy and boring.”
“You’re kind and polite though. I shouldn’t have been so awful.”
“I have a proposition for you. I’ll ask it once, and I recognize you’re prone to outrageous antics and wild conduct. So I suggest you listen carefully and think about my remarks. You won’t get a second chance to give me the answer I seek.”
“What is your question?”
“I’d like you to marry me.” Her initial reaction was to decline, and he held up a hand to prevent just such a comment. “Before you reply, let me tell you a few things.”
“All right.”
“We are in a home for unwed mothers.”
“Yes, we are.” It was so embarrassing.
“I have no idea if you are in trouble or not.”
She blushed a thousand shades of red. “I’m not.”
“You should ponder where you’ve landed yourself. You’ve scorned Mr. Bolton’s authority over you so you’ve participated in many negligent deeds, but look where you are because of it.”
“I didn’t mean to ruin myself. I was merely trying to escape from the Boltons.”
“I understand, and I’m offering you that escape.”
“Why would you? You barely know me.”
“I know enough,” he firmly stated. “I won’t pretend I’m the husband you would have liked to have. I saw you at Vauxhall one evening so I’m aware of the sorts of young men you fancy.”
“You saw me at Vauxhall?” Her cheeks reddened even further—if that were possible. Would she ignite from shame?
“Yes, and while I’m not the husband you want, I’m probably the precise husband you need. I’m stable and steady. I have excellent employment with Mr. Bolton so I can support you. I love your spirit and vivacious ways, and I will be happy to allow you to fly free, but I will rein you in when necessary. I’ll ensure you have an interesting life, but it will be a respectable and decent life as my wife.”
“What if I’m wrong, and I’m increasing after all?” In light of her current location, it was ridiculous to skirt the issue.
“If you are, then we’ll have our first child a few months from now. No one will ever learn when it was conceived. I will certainly never spread any stories about it.”
It was such a gallant speech that she couldn’t figure out how to respond. She’d been so flip, so abrupt with him. Yet here he was, eager to save her.
“I’m so confused,” she said. “Why would you do this for me?”
“I’ve always been besotted, Miss Markham. Couldn’t you tell?”
“Well…yes.”
“If you don’t wed me, I truly fear for you. Gertrude Bolton is a hard woman. Once you’re released, I’m not positive what she intends.”
“Neither am I.”
“I doubt she’ll let you live with them in the future. Have you considered that?”
“Yes, I’ve considered it.”
“She could have Mr. Bolton lock you in a convent. She could have you committed to an asylum as a hysteric. Of she might bar her door and leave you to fend for yourself on the streets. Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
Tears flooded into her eyes, and there were so many she couldn’t hold them in. They dripped down her cheeks, and she swiped them away. He pulled out a crisp, white kerchief from his pocket and handed it to her, and it was a striking indication of what it would be like to be his bride.
He’d be prepared for any emergency. He’d guarantee she always had what she required.
“There’s one other piece of this I have to explain,” he said, “then I’ll have to hear your answer.”
“What is the other piece?”
“Mr. Bolton is opening a series of shops in America—in a town called Boston in Massachusetts. I’ve volunteered to go there and get the enterprise off the ground.”
“You’re moving to America?”
“We would move to America, and I’d actually be doing it for you, Miss Markham. You’ve been laboring under some wicked influences in London. I will separate you from them, and in the meantime I offer you a grand adventure. The escapade might provide some of the excitement you’ve been seeking.”
At the notion of departing London, of sailing across the ocean, she suffered a trill of exhilaration. She couldn’t imagine staying in town, perhaps bumping into Nicholas Swift and having to witness his pity or disregard.
She couldn’t imagine living with the Boltons again. Or being locked away by them. She was Mr. Bolton’s ward and would be for several more years. During that period, he could inflict any punishment or humiliation.
If he sent her to a convent or an asylum, he wouldn’t have to ever release her. Fathers, husbands, and guardians regularly perpetrated those types of atrocities against unsuspecting women.
> Would she cast her lot with the Boltons and hope for the best? If she didn’t, or they wouldn’t, what were her options? Mr. Turner was the only one available.
Dabbing at her tears, she was mortified to her core. She was no longer a child, but she constantly acted like one. With her smart mouth, she was rude and impertinent. She wouldn’t heed sane advice and refused wise counsel.
She could be unbelievably cruel too, as evidenced by how she’d lied to Miss Barrington that day in the Boltons’ driveway. Catherine had been desperate to find Kit, but Gertrude had threatened Libby and ordered her to pretend she’d had an affair with him herself. Libby had let Catherine assume she’d been seduced by Kit, and it was obvious the falsehood had crushed Catherine beyond measure.
What was wrong with her? Why was she so horrid? Why was she so callous? Catherine could have been a friend forever, but Libby had pushed her away. She wondered if she’d ever cross paths with Catherine so she could apologize. She wondered if she’d be brave enough to confess her sin, to say she was sorry.
“So…Miss Markham, there you have it.” Mr. Turner yanked her out of her miserable reverie. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Bolton about this, and he’s given me his blessing. If you agree to have me, I can take you away right now.”
“Where would we wed? When would we wed?”
He glanced at her stomach. “We could elope—to accomplish it immediately.”
“Elope!”
“Yes, to Scotland. We can leave at once, but if you have a better idea I’m willing to listen.”
Could she proceed? Could she marry Mr. Turner? He was anxious to forge ahead, and with how spiteful she’d been to him she viewed it as a mark of his very strong character. It was character she hadn’t recognized him to possess.
Why would he want her? And after chasing Nicholas for so many months, could she learn to be happy with him? Could she enjoy a kind, loyal fellow instead of a dashing rogue? She’d never have any surprises with him. Not bad ones anyway. He’d never abandon her or cheat on her or decline to help her if she was in trouble.
If she consented, she’d have to be content with her choice. She couldn’t rue and regret, couldn’t compare him to the spouses she might have had or seethe with irritation over what might have been. She’d have to be the best wife ever, and with him being so keen to rescue her didn’t he deserve the best wife?
