by Liz Carlyle
Suddenly, something beyond the window caught her eye. She looked up to see that the painters were loading their scaffolding onto a cart in the carriage drive. “Look!” said Ariane, tossing down her napkin. “They must be finished with Mama’s old rooms.”
Helene had returned to the sideboard to refill her coffee. “They have indeed,” she answered. “All that remains are the draperies. Frederica, I still think you and Bentley should move into them.”
Frederica looked up uncertainly. “The garden suite?”
“Yes.” Helene smiled. “Shall we go have a look?”
The refurbishment did indeed look splendid, Frederica agreed a few minutes later. They entered through the sitting room which connected the two bedchambers. In this room, much had changed. Walls which had been cracked and badly papered were newly plastered and painted in a warm shade of yellow. The oak parquet had been polished to a soft sheen, and the delicate rosettes of the Jacobean ceiling had been meticulously restored.
“Oh, Helene, it really is beautiful!” said Frederica.
Helene had drifted toward the window with a pile of fabric samples. “Yes, but it needs some contrast in the draperies, don’t you think?” she mused, holding one of them up.
Just then, one of the scullery maids appeared, red-faced, in the open door. “Oh, beg pardon, your ladyship,” she said breathlessly. “Mrs. Naffles says can you please come down to the kitchen and have a peek at the joint what’s just going on the spit? ’Tis too lean, she thinks, and it mayn’t do for dinner.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine.” Helene set the fabric samples on a table near the door and turned to look at Ariane.
“Why don’t the two of you choose a fabric for the lady’s bedchamber?”
Ariane snatched the top two swatches. “I like these,” she announced as her stepmother departed. “Let’s see, Freddie.”
Gingerly, Frederica pushed open the door and wandered in with a mix of reluctance and curiosity. She could not put out of her mind the last visit she’d made to this room and the horrific expression on Bentley’s face. Inside, the smell of paint had finally overpowered the scent of lilacs. The old glazed chintz curtains had been torn down and tossed in a heap at the foot of the bed. The walls had been rehung with blue watered silk, and a new Axminster carpet in shades of blue and yellow had been partially unrolled in one corner.
Ariane looked at the walls, then at the fabrics she had carried into the room, one a jacquard rose, the other a red and ivory stripe. “Well, so much for these!” she said, tossing them into the air. She flopped down on the bed with an indecorous bounce. “Anyway, Freddie, you should choose the color. This is to be your new room, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure,” answered Frederica, drifting through the room. “Would you mind?”
Ariane lifted her head and looked at her blankly. “Lud, no. Why?”
Frederica cut her eyes away. “I heard you say these were your mother’s rooms.”
“Oh, yes,” said Ariane. “But take them, Freddie, if you like.”
“I’m not sure Bentley is willing to leave his old bedchamber,” Frederica murmured, smoothing a hand down the surface of the clothes press. The vision of her husband slamming the doors shut flashed through her mind. “No, I fancy we shall stay where we are. Perhaps, Ariane, you would like to have this room?”
“Oh, it’s quite too large for me.” Ariane had bounced herself off the bed and was beginning to poke about, picking up bric-a-brac and peeking into drawers. “I should feel lost here.”
But Frederica barely heard the last, for her attention had been captivated by a beautiful blanket chest which sat at the foot of the bed. The old curtains had been piled on it, and Frederica impulsively pushed them onto the floor. The top of the chest was hand-carved into an arrangement of vines and leaves, and in the center, they twined about a monogram.
“C—L—H,” she murmured, wiping away a trace of dust. “Look, Ariane, this must have been your mother’s before she wed.”
Ariane crossed the room. “Oh, I remember that,” she mused. “It was her dower chest. I wanted to put my doll collection in it, but the key was lost.”
Frederica knelt on the rug and examined it. “But this is a simple lock,” she said. “And a beautiful chest. You should have it. Let me give the lock a try.”
“Can you get it open?”
Frederica laughed. “Probably not,” she said, squinting into the lock. “Oh, yes, this is nothing. Just decorative, really.” Carefully, she drew out the pearl scarf pin she was using to hold her lace fichu together. “We had an old chest at Chatham Lodge with just such a lock,” she said, probing deep with the pin. “We never did have a key.”
“Did you open it like that?” Ariane was amazed.
“For years and years,” said Frederica. “If it got accidentally locked, we’d use a hairpin, a scarf pin, or sometimes just a nail.” Deftly, she twisted her wrist. Something inside gave way with a metallic snick! She laid the pin aside, and she and Ariane lifted the lid, its hinges screeching. But inside, the chest was deceptively small. A moth-eaten shawl lay in a drawer tray on top, while two wool blankets and some old silk bed hangings filled the bottom.
“Look!” said Ariane. “That’s Mama’s favorite!”
“This?” Frederica pulled the frothy pink garment from the drawer tray. The scent of mildew and lilacs was overpowering.
Ariane wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, it smells.” They peered into the chest just as a whole family of silverfish went scurrying from the tray. “Oh, that isn’t large enough for my dolls,” she added, her tone one of disappointment.
“Let’s be sure.” Still on her knees, Frederica lifted the tray, laid it aside, then scooped up the blankets. Three old books, a cloth-bound journal, and several mismatched stockings had been tossed into the bottom. But it really was quite small inside. With a sense of disappointment, perhaps more for herself than for Ariane, Frederica dropped them back in again. It would have pleased her to give the child something of her mother’s, but Ariane did not seem to miss Cassandra Rutledge.
Frederica looked again at the chest as she set the tray back into its slot. What was it about its odd shape? It really did remind her of the chest Evie used to store pigments and oils. “Ah!” she said, her hand going to the notched drawer in the bottom. There was no drawer pull, but it was a simple matter to open it, once one realized that the carvings made little handles.
Ariane peered into it, curious. “Oh, just the rest of Mama’s journals,” she said, her voice oddly flat. “She was forever writing in them, or to her friends.”
And too busy, if Ariane’s tone could be believed, to spend much time with her only child. Frederica laid a hand on Ariane’s shoulder. “Do you miss her dreadfully?”
Ariane wouldn’t look at her. “A bit,” she said. “We used to take long walks together.”
Frederica was confused. Perhaps Ariane and her mother had been close after all? Ariane had easily identified the journals and the shawl. Ah, well. Time to leave well enough alone. Frederica was clearly confusing her own childhood longings with Ariane’s. If the girl wanted the chest, the journals, or anything else to remember her mother by, she could claim it without Frederica’s help.
With a smile, Frederica gently lowered the top and stood. But she must have risen too quickly. The floor seemed to dip, the room to spin. Her vision went gray around the edges.
“Freddie?” Ariane’s voice came as if through a tunnel. “Freddie, are you all right?”
Frederica seized of one of the bedposts, and the room steadied. It was nothing. Her imagination. “I’m fine—I think,” she said, still clinging to the bedpost.
But suddenly, the door which gave onto the main corridor swung inward. “There you are, minx!” Lord Treyhern stood in the doorway, smiling at his daughter. “The post has come. Milford has a letter from Henriette Middleton, and guess who it’s addressed to?”
Ariane leapt off the floor with a shriek, kissed her papa soundly, and fl
ew out of the room, leaving the door swinging wide behind her. “Good morning, Frederica,” said the earl, stepping fully into the room.
“Good morning,” she returned. “Have you settled your business with Basil so quickly?”
“Ah, very much so, it would seem.” Treyhern looked suddenly sad, then brightened. “Well! How does the place look?”
“Lovely,” she answered. “The sitting room is vastly altered. Have you not seen it?”
Treyhern smiled a little ruefully. “I haven’t,” he admitted. “Shall I see what my guineas have got me?”
He disappeared into the sitting room, and, with a sense of relief, Frederica sank down onto the edge of the bed. The weakness in her knees was disconcerting. For long moments, she breathed deeply and listened to the earl’s movements as he roamed from the sitting room into the gentleman’s bedchamber and back again.
For an instant, she let her eyes drop shut, but when she reopened them, Treyhern was staring at her from the doorway, his smile fading. “Frederica?”
Swiftly, he crossed the room to the bed. Hoping to allay his alarm, Frederica tried to stand. A mistake. The swimming sensation struck again. She felt her knees give. “Oh!” The edges of the room began to darken. A pair of powerful arms came around her, and the whole world spun away.
“Steady, Frederica,” said a distant voice. “Steady. I’ve got you.” But everything had taken on a dreamlike quality. In the background, a roar, like a waterfall in her head, almost obliterated the heavy footfalls now treading into the room from the corridor. Suddenly, she felt the earl’s body stiffen.
“Why, you son of a bitch!” thundered an angry voice.
Bentley took one look at his wife in his brother’s arms and knew that his worst nightmare had come true. Frederica had one arm around Cam’s neck. Her lace fichu had slipped off one shoulder, and her face was turned from the door, her cheek pressed into his shirtfront. Rage exploded in his head, hot and blood red. Swiftly, he closed the distance, tearing his wife from Cam’s embrace.
“She’s ill, you fool,” growled Cam as Frederica sagged against him.
But fury and fear blocked out all logic. Acting on instinct, Bentley caught Frederica against his body and slid one arm beneath her knees. “Get your goddamned hands off my wife,” he snapped, scooping her up. “Touch her again, and I swear, Cam, I’ll kill you where you stand.”
His brother’s expression was inscrutable. “She swooned.” Cam said the words slowly, as if addressing a child. “I caught her.”
“Damn you, just shut up,” he answered. “I can take care of my wife.”
Cam’s eyes narrowed. “So you have repeatedly claimed,” he replied coldly. “Please do so now by taking her to her bed. I’ll fetch the doctor.”
A doctor?
Reality began to intrude on his rage. Frederica was almost a dead weight in his arms. True terror struck him then. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale as parchment. Against his chest, he felt her stir and moan. Swiftly, he turned and started from the room, cradling Frederica’s body against his own. His brother was already striding down the corridor, his hands balled into fists, his spine rigid. Bentley hit the steps, bounding up them two at a time.
“Bentley?” Freddie whispered. “I…I can walk.”
“No.” The word was succinct but not sharp.
“Wh-what happened?” She struggled to lift her head from his shoulder. “Why were you shouting?”
“Hold on, Freddie,” he answered, taking the last flight. “We’ll get you into bed.”
“No, no, I’m not ill,” she protested. “I just…I don’t know—fainted or something.”
“It is the babe,” he said grimly. “And it is my fault for putting you in this position.” Awkwardly, he shoved the door open with his knee. He settled her onto the bed, but Frederica began struggling to sit up. He pushed her gently down again, cursing under his breath.
“It’s all right,” she responded, reaching up to caress his face. “I’ve felt faint before. It is perfectly natural when one is carrying a child.”
Yes, that was true. Rationally, he knew it, but the thought no longer consoled him. What if something else was wrong? He took Freddie’s hand in his and drew it to his mouth, pressing his lips to the backs of her fingers. He remembered Signora Castelli’s divination—her inability to answer his simple question. He had not missed the troubled expression on the old woman’s face. His blood ran cold. God, no, he prayed, please, not that.
But just then, Helene rushed in. “I met Cam flying down the stairs,” she said, bending over the bed. “Oh, poor Freddie! Are you queasy?”
“I was a bit,” she admitted, trying to sit up again.
Helene’s gaze shot anxiously toward Bentley. “My dear, have you bled at all?”
Frederica blushed. “No.” She tried to sit up, as if to reassure them, but Helene set a hand on her forehead.
“No, you really must lie still, my dear. Cam is fetching Dr. Clayton. Let us pray that everything is fine.”
And everything did indeed seem fine, Dr. Clayton reassured them not an hour later. They stood in the corridor beyond Frederica’s door—Bentley, Helene, and the doctor, speaking in anxious whispers. But Bentley could not keep his hands from shaking. It had terrified him, the realization that she was ill. And now he wondered if the doctor was telling him the truth. He did not know what he would do should something happen to her or the child.
“You mustn’t force her to be an invalid, Mr. Rutledge,” the doctor sagely advised. “Really, I see no need for alarm.”
“She is well?” asked Bentley sharply. “The babe is well? You are quite sure?”
Dr. Clayton smiled. “As sure as one can be, Mr. Rutledge,” he said. “The first months are risky, yes, but Mrs. Rutledge just had a fainting spell. Another week or two, and she’ll be beyond most of this.”
“You are certain?” asked a low, worried voice over Bentley’s shoulder. Bentley turned to see his brother standing in the shadows of the corridor. So absorbed had he been by Dr. Clayton’s words, he’d not heard his brother approach.
Helene went at once to her husband. “She is resting comfortably now, Cam,” she said, setting one hand on his arm. “This sometimes happens, you know.”
The doctor gave his leather valise a little pat. “It does indeed, my lord!” he said cheerfully. “My heartiest congratulations to you, Mr. Rutledge. Do not hesitate to send for me if you have any concerns at all.”
“Yes, I shall,” said Bentley softly. “Thanks.”
“Yes, thank you, Dr. Clayton,” said Helene. “I shall see you out.”
Together, they went down the passageway toward the stairs. Bentley was left standing in the silence with his brother, and damned uncomfortable it was, too. Well, there was no help for it. He looked at Cam and stiffly inclined his head. “I beg you will accept my apology, Cam, for my ugly words,” he forced himself to say. “I have no excuse—or at least none which I will trouble you with.”
His brother stood silently in the shadows for a long moment, his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders still rigid. “We will put it down, then, to your concern for your wife,” responded Cam tightly. “Now, be so good as to excuse me. I’ve work to do.”
And with that, Bentley’s brother turned on one heel, leaving the yawning chasm of anger and misunderstanding between them yet another mile wider.
Good God, what had he done now? Bentley wanted to reach around and kick himself in the arse. And yet he inexplicably wanted to kick Cam, too. He wanted to hurt him. Strangle him. He felt somehow—in some sick, twisted way—that his brother was still, in part, to blame. Not for this. No, not exactly. But for something.
No, that wasn’t right. It was his fault. Wasn’t it? He’d always asked for trouble. Invited it with his very existence. Hadn’t he?
God damn it, was he losing his mind? He wanted to cry out after Cam—to say what, he hardly knew. But he did not. Instead, without being fully aware of his actions, Bentley turned hi
s back on his brother and slammed his fist into the wall with all his strength. Paint cracked, and plaster splintered. A soft white powder rained onto the toes of his boots. Bentley just stared down at it. The dust was very pale. His boots were very black. A drop of blood fell from his fist, bright and glistening against the gold carpet. But Bentley felt no pain. Instead, he focused his every thought on the contrasting colors—white and black, gold and red—willing himself to breathe and then to breathe again. Willing every other thought from his mind. Willing himself not to scream.
He was good at it. He did not scream.
In the end, Frederica decided not to go down to dinner, in part because she felt embarrassed for having caused so much worry. The family had run up and down the stairs all day, inquiring about her condition. Queenie sent up another potion from the stillroom, while Mrs. Naffles baked a lemon sponge cake just to tempt Frederica’s appetite.
Despite her protests that she felt fine, Bentley would go to the door each time someone knocked and send them away again. He scarcely left her side, insisting that she stay in bed while he either read to her or watched her nap. She was touched by his kindness, even if she did feel it was unnecessary. It was as if something between them was slowly changing and deepening.
She suspected, however, that there were fences to be mended between Bentley and his brother, and the sooner the better. And she imagined they might be easier to mend if she were not around. So, as dusk neared, Frederica asked that a dinner tray be brought up to her room and ordered him to join his family downstairs.
Stretched out on the bed beside her, Bentley laughed, tossed aside the novel he’d been reading her, and kissed her slowly and deeply. “Ungrateful girl,” he murmured, his mouth lingering over hers. “You won’t get rid of me, you know.”
Frederica felt the familiar surge of desire rush through her body. “Haven’t you gone stark mad, being shut up with me all day?”
