The Lady's Desire

by Audrey Abbott

  “Our union will be a business contract. You will be provided for as befitting your new status. You will have servants, a lady’s maid or two to attend to your needs. I only require one thing.” He paused. “That you provide me with an heir.”

  His brittle voice grated in Anne’s ear. Nothing about his demeanor spoke of tenderness or affection. His eyes never sought hers. Only once did he truly look at her, but with a lingering glance that seemed to devour her, and left Anne feeling sullied and apprehensive.

  Mistrusting his true intentions, Anne asked, “Lord Westmeare, tell me about your family. How is your father, the Earl?”

  “He resides in Italy. He has been in declining health for several years.” He cleared his throat. “I have not seen him in over a year.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. Will we travel to visit him after the wedding? He might wish to meet his new daughter-in-law.”

  “I had not thought of that. It is a possibility.” The vscount looked uncomfortable as he added, “Although he never met his first one. My first wife, Beatrice, died very soon after we wed. A riding accident.”

  “I see.” Anne rose and walked to the window. “Lord Westmeare, last night you expressed certain guarantees to my brother about continuing his education and securing a commission in the Army for our dear brother-in-law, David Ayres.” She turned and looked him in the eye. “Is all that indeed possible?”

  Lord Westmeare returned her gaze and winced. “Yes. All that is indeed possible.”

  Anne approached the viscount, curtsied, and extended her hand. “Lord Westmeare, I am indeed honored by your proposal of marriage, but I will require letters that guarantee your promises. Your lordship will understand that I have the welfare of my family to consider.”

  Westmeare accepted her hand in his limp gloved one. “In a week you will have your guarantees, Mistress Tuttle.” He offered her a weak smile, then turned, and vanished into the darkened hallway. She heard the door close solidly behind him.

  Anne watched her future husband as he disappeared inside his coach. There were few secrets in a small village such as Abbey Mead and rumors concerning the Westmeare family circulated wildly. The earl had favored his eldest son and virtually ignored the younger one who suffered from physical ailments, including tics and spasms.

  Their mother doted on her second son, but she died young and the small lonely boy was shipped off to boarding school where he endured persecution and bullying from the other students, including his own brother.

  Their father’s attempts to toughen him up did not succeed. Eventually, the earl sent a rough and robust servant along to protect him. That servant was now the viscount’s devoted estate steward, Jasper Winebiddle.

  Anne now waited for the letters of confirmation. And the Viscount Westmeare did indeed keep his promises. Documents arrived from Cambridge, guaranteeing Randall’s continued education there.

  She was surprised to learn that Lord Westmeare served as a Colonel in His Majesty’s Army. And he quickly secured David’s commission as an Ensign. Assigned to a nearby regiment in Hampshire, David received permission to enjoy a brief leave in order to attend the Viscount Westmeare’s wedding to his sister-in-law.

  And the vicarage would be secured for her family’s benefit.

  With her family’s needs safeguarded, Anne accepted the viscount’s proposal. He then presented her with a written marriage contract, demanding she sign it. The deed’s legal language bewildered her.

  Anne attempted to stall Lord Westmeare one more time. “My Lord, please allow me a few days to examine this document and to share it with my brother, Randall.”

  Westmeare blustered, but acquiesced.

  A guilty and worried Randall read the document and suggested they should consult a solicitor.

  Brother and sister traveled to London to seek legal advice and for a surprising and joyful reunion with their mother’s younger sister, Martha. A letter had arrived stating that Aunt Martha and her family had only recently returned from their decades-long stay in Germany and they were searching for a house in London. There were no older male relatives to champion Anne, but her aunt’s husband, Augustus Mayer, did have his solicitor look over the legal fine print of Westmeare’s marital contract.

  To Anne’s surprise and Randall’s relief, they secured for her a jointure, or separate estate, whereby Lord Westmeare’s investments in a minor shipping fleet and a few mills would be placed in trust for his new wife. And these could not be touched by his lordship who, it was rumored, seemed to suffer many recent business losses. They also inserted a clause that guaranteed Anne a fixed income at her disposal for clothes and other feminine desires.

  When presented with the document, Lord Westmeare balked at these strictures. He whined and even cursed. But in the end, he reluctantly signed the jointure and the “pin money” clause.

  Anne tread with care as she moved toward her future. In London, many rumors also circulated about Lord Westmeare’s large gambling debts. Yet, he always managed to pay them off. But how? His father, the Earl, had reduced his yearly stipend. Did he possess other sources of income? The country was in the midst of a recession and the viscount’s investments seemed not to prosper.

  And questions swirled about town concerning the sudden death of his first wife. A riding accident? Yet Lady Beatrice was known to be an excellent rider.

  Anne hoped for a happy marriage, yet her mind embraced doubt. She had secured the welfare of her family. Now clinging to her papa’s words that in the end all would be well, she moved ahead with plans for the wedding and that day had now arrived.

  Albert Grenville, Lord Westmeare, awaited her inside the village church where her papa once served as vicar, a place that held only happy memories for Anne.

  A place of quiet dignity. A safe haven.

  Chapter 7

  June 1812

  The Church

  Abbey Mead

  Inside the sanctuary, almost everyone from the village and a few family friends crowded into the pews. Anne’s Aunt Martha and Uncle Augustus sat up front with their two children, Charlotte and young August. Lloyd and Lydia Satterfield sat rigidly in their own family pew. No one from the viscount’s manor house or family was in attendance.

  “What a beautiful day,” exclaimed one guest.

  “Yet so terribly tragic that the Vicar Tuttle is not here to marry his own daughter,” observed another. Murmurs of regret rustled in agreement along the church aisle.

  Anne stood at the back of the church with Randall. At the opening chords of the organ, a tremor of fear clawed at her insides. A cold dread iced her veins. She tightened her hold on Randall’s arm and forced herself to look down the aisle toward her future husband.

  Lord Westmeare’s lean figure strutted back and forth in front of the altar. He fingered his wig and repeatedly checked his pocket watch.

  Randall gripped her arm and held her back while the congregation stood, waiting expectantly for the bride to descend the aisle. He bent over and gently turned her face toward his. “You do not have to do this, Anne,” he whispered, his voice tinged with guilt. “We can call it off. If you have any doubts, we can end this now. I want only your happiness, Anne.”

  Anne bit her lip and offered her brother a wistful smile. She shook her head. “I must do this, Randall. It will be all right in the end,” she said, echoing their father’s assurance.

  With those words, Anne straightened her shoulders, gripped her mother’s prayer book, and stepped toward the altar with a prayer on her lips. The Lord is my shepherd . . .

  Anne waded through the service, responding where she must, kneeling, rising, accepting the gold ring that Lord Westmeare thrust onto her finger. It weighed heavily on her small hand, encircling her flesh with a dreadful finality.

  Throughout the entire ceremony, never once did h
er soon-to-be husband even glance at her. The Lord Westmeare seemed distracted and even bored. Anne wondered, and not for the first time, why he was marrying her. He needed an heir, but surely any woman could provide that successor.

  After the service, the couple followed the minister into the vestry to record their names in the parish register where countless newlyweds made their mark before them. Anne speculated about how many brides faced the future burdened with the apprehension that she now carried in her heart.

  Lord Westmeare dashed off his signature with a flourish. Anne carefully inscribed, Anne Elizabeth Tuttle.

  Taking her bare hand limply within his gloved one, her new husband hesitated and then offered her a quick smile. He guided her back into the church sanctuary and down the aisle to where their guests awaited them outside in the bright sunshine.

  There the minister announced to the gathering, “Welcome, Lord and Lady Westmeare!”

  Smiles and applause followed by a few restrained cheers greeted the newlywed couple.

  Chapter 8

  June 1812

  The Vicarage

  Abbey Mead

  The guests strolled over to the Vicarage where the family had prepared a small reception. There they mingled and enjoyed the savory treats so lovingly prepared by Anne, Penelope, and their Aunt Martha. The sun brightened the affair and many took their plates outside.

  The newly married couple greeted their guests in the parlor. Lord Westmeare stood rigidly beside his new bride, nodding to the guests, but barely uttering a word. After a while, Anne turned to say something to her new husband only to discover that he was no longer there. She excused herself and went in search of him.

  Anne found him in the library. The room had been restored to its former order. The books no longer stacked on the floor, but returned to their rightful places on the shelves. Anne smiled to see that happy restoration. She found Lord Westmeare sitting on a chair with his gloved hands folded and dangling between his knees.

  “My lord. Ah, husband. Are you not well? What brings you here away from our guests?”

  He rose and glanced at his watch. “When will this revelry be over?”

  “Our guests are still enjoying themselves. We should stay a bit longer. Our friends and family and some of the villagers still wish to extend their good wishes.”

  The viscount picked up his cane and tapped the floor. “I am weary and this has been a long morning. We need to return to the mansion. My staff is awaiting our arrival there.” He paused as he studied her from head to toe. “And we must begin our union as husband and wife.”

  Anne blushed at this frank reference to their wedding night.

  “Begin to make your final farewells, my dear, so that we can depart.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Anne curtsied and turned to rejoin their guests. After a short interval, Lord Westmeare followed her back to the reception where he exchanged a few hurried words with the minister. Then to everyone’s surprise—and Anne’s dismay—he ordered that the coach be brought. The waiting coachman obliged and drew up to the front of the house in order to drive them immediately to the Westmeare mansion.

  “Dear guests, my bride and I must be away now. We will be departing for Hartwood Manor. Please accept our invitation to visit the Westmeare mansion sometime in the near future.”

  He waited by the door as Anne enjoyed a final embrace from her Aunt Martha. Then he pulled her from the receiving line and ushered her outside and into the carriage emblazoned with his family’s crest. A few of the wedding guests followed them.

  “You cannot leave just now, Lord Westmeare,” Uncle Augustus blustered. “How very rude!”

  “If you have something to discuss with me, sir, you may address your concerns to Mr. Winebiddle, my estate steward.” Westmeare then hauled himself into the carriage.

  Randall, anguish and guilt etched on his face, advanced and pounded on the carriage door. Leaning out the open window, the viscount called, “It has been a long morning and an even longer ceremony and my bride is tired.” He hammered his cane on the ceiling of the coach. As the vehicle lurched forward, its wheels crushed the gravel, spitting stones at the wedding guests as it sped up the hill toward the manor house.

  Once settled inside the coach, Westmeare gazed at a shocked Anne. Resting his crossed gloved palms on the top of his mahogany walking stick, his eyes scanned her from head to toe and back again. He reached out a hand to stroke the sheer white lace that lay over her sapphire blue silk gown. “I paid for this. It was no doubt costly. I trust that you can wear it again.” Anne took a deep breath and tried not to cringe from his touch.

  Gathering her resolve, she said calmly, “Lord Westmeare. Husband. Albert . . . We should return to the reception and continue to receive the good wishes of our friends and family and the villagers.”

  “Nonsense. The wedding is concluded as is the reception. And you are now my wife and my property. Remember, my dear Anne, you promised before God today to obey me.” Westmeare squeezed his eyes open and shut as he spoke.

  Appalled by his actions as well as by his words, Anne shrank back into the leather seat and grasped her mother’s cross as the coach rushed her to an uncertain destiny.

  Anne’s sense of duty compelled her to remain in the carriage. Her instincts told her to flee.

  Duty triumphed. The events of coming days would cause her to regret that decision.

  Chapter 9

  June 1812

  Hartwood Manor

  Arriving at Hartwood Manor, the coach slowed in front of the grand entrance. Before Anne could collect her thoughts, Westmeare threw open the door, gripped her arm, and drew her out of the carriage. His physical strength surprised her. Shock left her speechless. He pulled her over the threshold and into a cold marble hall. There he paused. Two rows of servants lined up to greet the newly wedded couple.

  They bowed and curtsied, their faces carefully blank. Westmeare barked a few orders and the staff melted away. He had not even introduced his new bride to the individual members of the estate’s personnel.

  The viscount guided Anne up a seemingly endless staircase to a long hallway at the end of which stood a double door. He pushed open the door, revealing a large bed chamber. With these few words, “You must be tired, my dear,” he ushered her inside and slammed the door shut.

  Anne heard the key turn in the lock. Westmeare’s footsteps retreated along the hallway and echoed down the staircase. Then there was silence.

  Now far more angry than frightened, Anne awaited her husband’s return. She stood breathless, hoping her heart would stop racing. Appalled that he had demonstrated such little respect to her or to her family or to society’s sense of decorum, Anne paced in front of the door.

  What must their guests be thinking? What must the servants be thinking? Mortified, she yanked the cord which should have summoned servants to the room. No one responded to the bell. She pulled again. Nothing. She wanted to scream. To cry. To flee.

  Flee? How? In frustration, she tried the door. Locked! Of course she knew it would be.

  She spun around to survey her prison. The centerpiece, a mahogany bed dressed with turquoise and gold velvet curtains, loomed across the room. Plentiful down pillows and a turquoise damask counterpane completed the garish bedding. The bed filled her with dread.

  In a corner of the chamber, a gold velvet settee nestled inside a U-shaped window well. Formal groupings of small tables and stiff-backed chairs were arranged around the room. As Anne explored the chamber, she discovered a giant copper bathtub and a small water closet hidden behind an ornately carved screen.

  Sent up the day before, Anne’s valise, a small trunk, and her reticule waited for her beside a large wardrobe. She unfastened the wardrobe and found her few new gowns hanging inside. Anne swirled to face the room and leaned her head against the closet
door. She closed her eyes and tried to sooth her aching heart. Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself away from the wardrobe.

  From within their ornate frames, the dead eyes of Westmeare ancestors stared down at her with dour expressions. As she moved about the room, she felt them following her. Mocking her. She knew they were not truly gazing at her. How could they? But she sensed she was not alone in the room. Someone else was there. Watching her.

  She spun around. A few brass sconces and candles sputtered along the walls, barely illuminating the vast chamber. Murky shadows shifted in the corners. She moved toward the huge gilt-framed mirror that dominated the space above the marble fireplace. There was something oppressive about the mirror. She stared at the room revealed in the beveled glass.

  In the mirror, Anne saw the reflection of a pale woman, an abandoned bride, standing alone. She rubbed her bare arms. No fire warmed the grate and the room grew chilly as afternoon crept into night. Hours passed. Again Anne pulled the cord. Again. And again. And again. No one came.

  A small table held a brightly decorated china teapot with matching cups and saucers. They beckoned Anne from across the room, but the tea was cold and provided no comfort. Anne picked up one of the delicate cups and heaved it into the hearth. The fine porcelain splintered into a hundred tiny shards. There was no response. Hours passed. No one came.

  Moving to the window, Anne knelt on the gold settee and parted the curtains. A quarter moon silvered the manor’s lake at the bottom of the lawn. A few deer drank at the water’s edge. Something unseen spooked them and they fled into the park.