The Earl and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 1)

by Paullett Golden

  She had much to learn of his holdings and loved him all the more for seeing him hard at work and living up to his promises of being a dedicated employer. All the time he was ignoring her, he had been hiding in his study working on estate business, revealing not only his dedication to his livelihood, but also his choice of distraction. He was burying himself in work to forget his troubles.

  If she understood him well enough, she suspected that was what he had done since his inheritance. He threw himself into work as a distraction. He oft claimed it gave him renewed purpose. Did it? Or was it a way to forget?

  She recalled their more intimate discussions during the first two weeks. When he was still living under his father’s roof, he had no means of escape, no means of distraction, so he drowned his sorrows as many young men did, but after inheriting, the building of this small empire had been his sole focus in life, giving him direction and purpose, a saving grace during the darkest of times.

  He worked not so much for himself, but for the laborers his father had cheated in his greedy pursuit of profits. He had told her the focus kept him afloat even during the bouts of depression he suffered, during which times he would work the hardest, but he never would tell her why he suffered other than from the abuse, abuse he still swore he deserved.

  Desiring to understand his past more, and with no other means in which to delve, she seized the opportunity to exchange the travel journals. Running back to the bedchamber and up into the topmost tower to grab the travel journals she had been reading, she quickly replaced them with two new ones.

  Not that she had learned anything from the journals thus far, but she could hope something would be referenced in the journals. Anything. Any clue to his family life. After all, they were her only link to his father, at least the only link at hand, without her prying by speaking to shopkeepers in Roddam, visiting Roddam Hall, or even interrogating his Aunt Catherine, none of which she was ready to do yet.

  With the journals tucked under her arm, she traversed back to the topmost tower where she had set up a little reading room for herself. Both towers were small and cozy, stone seats circling the rooms and stunning views with only slender columns of stone separating the windows.

  Settling herself onto her makeshift pallet, she wasted no time in starting the dull as dishwater diary. This diary had been written while in Greece. From what she gathered of the dates, the earl had traveled every summer for several years after Sebastian’s birth.

  This journal opened with commentary about Turkish conflicts. She wished Sebastian’s father would have written more detail, reflected on the people and views, what he saw, not just what he did, or better yet, reflected on his home life and the family he left behind while traveling. The journals really did feel more like travel itineraries than anything. Regardless, she sat transfixed, wondering what the old earl would do next on his trip.

  After what must have been two hours of turning pages, she started to doze. Shaking the wool from her eyes, she turned the page.

  A letter fell into her lap. Curious, she flipped the book upside down and shook it. Two more letters joined the first.

  Setting aside the accounts of Greece, she picked up the first envelope, addressed to The Right Honorable The Earl of Roddam.

  Unfolding the correspondence, she glanced first at the sender, a Mrs. Brighton. The stationary was from a parish orphanage in Allshire.

  My Lord,

  Your donation is welcomed and ample. The amount in question will be enough to support the child through her years at the orphanage. As requested, familial identity shall remain sealed and the donation anonymous. It is unusual for our orphanage to accept a child of her age, but with time she should forget her former life. The additional patronage you offer for us to collect the child is enough for the cost of the travel. The clerk will arrive before dawn on the following Monday. With all matters settled, this is my final correspondence. Wishing you

  All the best,

  Mrs. Brighton, Headmistress

  What child, and why was she being sent to an orphanage? Seeing nothing more to the letter, Lizbeth set it aside and reached for the next one.

  Tobias, my love,

  I received your letter and wept with joy! We are to be united at last! I must wait until Papa is asleep before I can leave. I will meet you at the stable tomorrow night. You are my true love, Tobias, and I want no one except you. We will show them all the meaning of love once we are wed. No one can stop us, not your wicked father or mine. To think, soon the humble daughter of a coachman will be the wife of an earl’s son! Your heart is good to love me despite all that stands between us. Tomorrow, I have a secret to share. I hope you will be as delighted as I. Oh, blessed morrow! Will it never come? Your

  One true love,

  Lily Chambers (after tomorrow, Lily Lancaster)

  Startled, Lizbeth reread the letter. Tobias was Sebastian’s father’s name, but who was Lily? Sebastian’s mother was Jane. Tobias and Jane Lancaster, not Tobias and Lily. Had she misremembered? Jane was a far cry from Lily as far as misremembrance went.

  The terms of love and devotion didn’t seem fitting to the cruel man she knew Sebastian’s father to be. Had he once been a loving man turned cruel, or had he always been cruel and used this poor girl, perhaps ravishing her with promises of elopement? There was no way to know.

  Setting aside the second letter, she moved onto the last of the collection, a quickly scrawled note with no salutation or closing, but the handwriting was unmistakably that of Lily from the previous letter.

  In this basket, you will find our Lilith. Please do not turn her away. I leave her with you and your new wife in hopes one of you will show compassion.

  Lizbeth chewed her bottom lip. She hadn’t a clue if any of these letters related to each other or why they had been shoved in one of the travel journals. She did question if Sebastian had seen them. Given his aversion to all things related to his father, she thought not. He had likely never opened the journals.

  She re-read the letters two more times. Temptation tickled her toes to take the letters to Sebastian, but she knew his response, knew he would be angry that she had snooped through the journals, and angrier still that she brought him correspondences regarding his father.

  If she crafted them into a story, she would guess that Tobias had loved or pretended to love a girl named Lily, gotten her into trouble, then married someone else, by force or choice. Had he loved Lily but been forced to marry Jane? Or had he planned to marry Jane all along and seduced Lily? And who was Lilith?

  In her wittily crafted story, Tobias got Lily in the family way, leaving Lily with an illegitimate named Lilith, who Lily then left with Tobias and his wife Jane. The problem with her narrative was, as far as she knew, Sebastian had no siblings.

  Then, perhaps he wasn’t even aware he had a sister. If she tied in the letter from Mrs. Brighton, she might conclude Lilith had been sent to an orphanage, but no, that wouldn’t make sense either because the letter from Mrs. Brighton mentioned an advanced age, not a newborn. If she weren’t sent until she was older, Sebastian would know he had a sister, unless they didn’t keep her for long or hid her from him? Or he was too young to recall?

  Bah! All speculation. Ridiculously fabricated speculation. Her lip was raw from gnawing on it.

  Liz didn’t have enough evidence to draw any inductive conclusions, only suspicions. Why had he kept the letters? Did Tobias harbor affection for Lily, his love child?

  Then it hit her. Slapped her in the face with the cold hand of memory. During at least one of his nightmares, while he thrashed against the sheets and she tried to calm him, he had called Lilith’s name.

  At the time, she thought little of it, for he had been calling her name, and so she supposed she misheard or he spoke in a feverish fit of confusion. Lizbeth and Lilith didn’t sound too different from the lips of a deranged dreamer, after all. But there was no
mistaking the memory now. He had spoken that name. He knew of Lilith, yet he had said nothing to Lizbeth about her. He knew full well he had a sister. He hid this from her. As good as lied to her by omission.

  Was Lilith who haunted his dreams? What had happened to keep her a secret? Her imagination conjured far wilder stories than were likely true, but given the advanced age at which the girl would have been sent to the orphanage and that Sebastian kept her a secret from his own wife although he still dreamed of her, Lizbeth’s imagination took her for a merry ride indeed.

  A stab in her gut told her she knew nothing at all about the man she married. She felt ill. She’d married a stranger.

  She was sick of being left in the dark, sick of being treated with kid gloves. Confronting him was the only option.

  Chapter 32

  One of the potential doctors had responded to his invitation. He needed to reply soon to set dates for the physician’s visit, but he hesitated, curious if Lizbeth would want to join him in the interview and tour of Balan.

  He wouldn’t doubt her intentions to join him except he’d been a horse’s arse for over a week. He knew he had been. He knew she knew he had been. Yet in her extraordinary way, she cleverly crossed the distance he had created to show him what he missed while stewing. With her simple, wordless act, she showed him she stood by him, understood his need for space to think. Such a remarkable woman, his wife.

  Locking his fingers behind his head, he leaned against his desk chair, remembering yesterday vividly. Such a remarkable woman. Despite his being an arse, she still came to him with love and support, reminding him what they shared together and how much he loved her.

  Last night, he had slept as soundly as during their first week of marriage, no nightmare, just peaceful sleep. He had dreamed, but not of the past. Instead, he dreamt of Lizbeth walking by his side along the coast, her eyes smiling at him with tenderness.

  If only she knew how much he loved her. If only he didn’t fear losing her so much that he could be honest with her, lay his past at her feet and ask her to help him sort through the mess. If only he knew with absolute certainty she wouldn’t run.

  She hadn’t run when she saw the scars, so maybe she wouldn’t run from the truth. Then, what did it say about her if she didn’t run? How could someone so easily forgive another person for what his poor decision had cost, the lives of two people and the torment of a third?

  He made up his mind. Not without trepidation. Her demonstration yesterday of unconditional support spurred him to action. He would tell her. For better or worse, for good or ill, he would tell her. She could decide then what to make of him, if she still wanted to shackle herself to a worthless man or if she wanted to seek her life elsewhere. His heart was torn as to what she might choose. As much as he wanted her to accept his flaws, he wanted her foremost to be happy.

  He needed another week, a month at most, to gather strength, to spend time with her, to practice how he would tell her, and then he would come clean.

  He wanted to perfect the wording to minimize the blow while not lightening the truth. The wording certainly required thought. How best to explain what happened, why he was responsible, and how he has paid the price ever since? Just one more week, at least. He knew she wouldn’t badger until he was ready, not after her demonstration yesterday. Remarkably understanding woman.

  Before he came clean, he would invite his solicitor to set up for her financially in case she left. The solicitor could arrange for her dowry money, as well as all profits generated from a couple of his estates, to be accessible so she could do with it whatever she liked. Sebastian would also request one of the estates be readied for her to move into. Knowing she would want to be close to the ocean and relatively close to her sister, he decided Creighton Hall would be perfect, for it wasn’t far from the coast, nestled on the east edge of the Yorkshire moors.

  Yes, she’d like that. His solicitor would draw up the contract, giving her ample funds and the estate at her command. He would see to a child’s provision in the contract, as well, should, by any chance, she find herself with child from their coupling between now and then. He yearned for children with her, but he doubted she would want him anywhere near a child of theirs after hearing his tale. She wouldn’t dare trust him with a child. Not once she knew the truth.

  He wanted her to be taken care of if she chose to leave him, as he couldn’t blame her if she did, if she saw in him what he saw, what his father taught him to see, beat into him to see. Everything needed to be in order before he faced her. Devil take it; he should have seen to all of this well before they wed.

  He certainly couldn’t live like this anymore, keeping her at arm’s length. Last night proved that. He had tried, and he had failed, leaving only one alternative: the truth. Just a little more time was all he needed.

  No, he didn’t trust himself enough, coward that he was.

  A ha! A foolproof plan. He would write a letter to his solicitor and require the man deliver it to Lizbeth at the end of November, no matter what. The letter would explain everything. In this way, if cowardice struck him dumb, his plan would still go into effect, thus saving or destroying his marriage.

  With determination, he pulled a fresh sheet of parchment and wet his quill, ready to write his solicitor to begin the process.

  Nothing about any of this settled well in his stomach. If only there were a way for it to be like last night every night for the rest of their lives without him having to say a word, or better yet, with his entire past erased.

  Lizbeth, I can’t lose you.

  He jotted the salutation to his solicitor, quill scratching against paper.

  A thunk from the opposite side of the room announced the closing of the library door. Startled, he looked up to find Lizbeth in the doorway. Behold, a divine angel, beautiful perfection inside and out. A smile curved his lips.

  “Who is Lilith?” she demanded, her expression pained.

  His smile slipped. He dropped the quill to the desk, ink splattering across the page. Sebastian stared, gaping.

  How did she…? He searched his memory for who would know that name, who could have told her that name.

  The journals. Devils and damnation. His father must have written about the incident in one of the journals. She must know everything. Before his eyes, his world crumbled.

  Fear shook his body, his legs wobbling as he stood from his desk chair. Trembling hands braced against the desk to steady him.

  No! No, not yet! He wasn’t ready. He needed more time. He needed to meet with the solicitor first. He needed to prepare his words. But then, what more could he say if she already knew all?

  Opening his mouth to speak, he chocked, the words caught in his throat.

  “Who is Lilith, Sebastian? I have a right to know,” she commanded, ignorant of how that name ripped at his heart.

  His words didn’t rise above a whisper, yet still they carried to her on the opposite side of the room, a gulf separating them. “My sister.”

  “You have a sister, yet you never told me?” Her inflection wounded, insulted, as pained as he felt. “Why would you keep that from me?”

  “Had. I had a sister. Please, Lizbeth, don’t ask more questions, not yet. I need time.” Jagged words syncopated his plea.

  “And I need you to talk to me, Sebastian. You’ve had all the time in the world to tell me. Now I ask a simple question—why didn’t you tell me you had a sister?”

  “It’s not a simple question.” His voice cracked.

  “Talk to me. Why the secrecy? Where is she? What happened to her?”

  Each question sounded louder, ringing in his ears. A low humming underlay all sounds in the room. His head ached with a faint dizziness.

  “I can’t. Not yet. I can’t tell you.” He leaned against his desk, bracing himself in case he fainted.

  The room swirled around him, the humming droning l
ouder. He wasn’t ready for this. He couldn’t lose her.

  Stop asking, and leave the room, Lizbeth. Turn around and go read a book, walk the ocean, drink tea. Please, leave the room, Lizbeth. He repeated this mantra, silently begging her to hear it.

  Her words softened, barely audible, her eyes brimming with tears. “I hardly know who you are.”

  “I’m me. The same man you married. Nothing has changed.”

  “Yes, it has. You are pushing me away so you can hide your sister. But why? I need to understand. I can’t help you if I don’t understand why you’ve lied to me.”

  “Please stop,” he begged. “Stop this line of inquiry. I can’t lose you.”

  The humming drowned out his words. He heard only mumbled words, spoken through a funnel, a distant scene he only perceived rather than participated.

  He continued to plead with her in his mind, projecting his thoughts to her, wanting her to receive them and accept them. Don’t make me say it aloud, Lizbeth. I can’t bear to say it aloud yet. Let me write the letters. Let me organize my thoughts.

  “Why would you lose me? The only way you’ll lose me is if you continue this charade, hiding in your library and lying to me. I can’t believe you kept this from me.” Her chin quivered as she spoke, the corners of her lips dipping with each word.

  He turned to look at the floor, still holding himself against the desk. “You don’t understand.”

  “Help me to understand.”

  The pattern on the rug waved, his vision blurring. Even when receiving the beatings from his father, he hadn’t felt this level of fear. He had hardened himself against the beatings. He couldn’t harden himself from her. All he knew now was bone-deep fear at vocalizing what he had never spoken to another soul, fear of her rejection, fear of not waking up to her by his side tomorrow morning or any morning.