Branson lifted her veil.
Clara’s breath caught as her cousin slowly, deliberately bent his lips to hers.
“Hello!” A masculine voice called out. “Good God, is that Branson Hamilton? As I live and breathe! He’s not a myth after all!”
Branson and Clara jumped apart. A company of sportsmen and a woman were approaching them from the east.
“Mrs. Brockville, look who it is! Our misanthropic neighbour, the estimable Mr. Hamilton! What ho, sir!”
“God help us,” Branson muttered under his breath but he lifted his arm and greeted the intruder with civility. “Good morning, Colonel Brockville. It is good to see you again.”
The stout man beamed jovially, his face was red from exertion. “Liar! I saw the grimace you made when I called out. A more reserved neighbour I could not hope to find. The late Leonard Hamilton was a positive firecracker next to you, and that is saying something!”
His laugh was wheezing as he grasped Branson’s hand and shook it. His wife came hurrying up behind. The lady’s parasol was pressed into service as a walking stick and her bonnet was askew. Clara liked her face instantly. Mrs. Brockville, like her husband, had rough overbearing country manners that did not stand on ceremony. They were delighted to have stumbled across the young couple.
“Out here of all places!” cried Mrs. Brockville.
“Hardly surprising, madam,” Branson said flatly. “This is Windemere Down. My cousin and I were out for a morning ride. Permit me to introduce Miss Clara Hamilton. She is visiting us from London.”
Chapter Ten
COLONEL BROCKVILLE winked broadly. “She is doing a good deal more than that, you young rogue! Oh come now, there is no need for secret engagements among friends. We heard the news only just last night over dinner! Miss Clara Hamilton was betrothed to our own Mr. Branson Hamilton last month and we are now chomping at the bit for the wedding announcement. Now, young lady—don’t keep us in suspense—when is it to be?”
Clara’s cheeks burned. She turned to Branson helplessly.
“I’m afraid you are too late, Colonel. The wedding took place the night before last. At the request of Clara’s father, it was a small ceremony in the chapel on the estate. We’ll be leaving for London in a few weeks. Clara wanted to reacquaint herself with Windemere Hall first.”
Brockville’s face screwed up with dismay and surprise. A veritable kaleidoscope of emotion greeted this disappointing news. “I say, that is a pity! Mrs. Brockville, isn’t it a great pity. The deed is done and we were looking forward to a party at Windemere. Well, that’s what comes from being hard up for entertainment, eh, dearest? One pins one’s hopes on the younger generation to provide distraction and they are too busy in this modern age. In any case, congratulations, sir. Well done! And congratulations to you too, my dear.” The colonel kissed Clara on her cheek and shook Branson’s hand. “What a fine couple they make, eh, Mrs. Brockville?”
“Very fine,” gushed his wife. “Very fine indeed, and I could not be happier for you, my dear. You have certainly landed on your feet.”
She pressed Clara’s gloved hand in hers. Mrs. Brockville was as round as her husband. Her bright brown eyes narrowed with knowing sympathy. “I heard about your recent difficulties from our houseguests. Now, there is no need to be embarrassed. I understood the situation entirely and was quite sympathetic to it. But oh! What a coup to land the elusive Mr. Hamilton! Your young husband was the catch of the county, though I daresay he had no idea of being any such thing. Quite oblivious to the ladies is our young Branson.”
“Who—who is your houseguest?” Clara’s throat was parched. The question scraped over her vocal chords. She was gripped with terror that she already knew the answer.
“Why, Captain Strachan, of course. When he learned Mr. Hamilton was our neighbour, he couldn’t help but share the good news of your engagement. Captain Strachan served with the Colonel; we are very old friends. He arrived yesterday for a shooting party at Petherham, our country estate. We’re just over the hill there. Young Branson is our nearest neighbour. Luckily for me, Captain Strachan brought Miss Trudy Delisle with him—such a delightful couple.”
The sound of voices carried over the rise. Clara turned, dread choking her lungs.
“Speak of the devil—yoo-hoo! Captain Strachan! Look who we have here—an old friend of yours, sir!”
STRACHAN WAS brought up short by the sight of Clara Hamilton. She was standing beside Branson Hamilton, looking rather fetching in a new riding habit. Old Arthur Hamilton must have found the money somehow to outfit his daughter. He doubted any of the shops in London would extend him credit. Clara used to turn up at parties and the opera wearing last year’s fashions. A faux pas or an indication of financial trouble at home—Clara’s poor dress made Strachan question the relative merit in pursuing her.
The final nail in the coffin was the accusation of embezzlement. Strachan couldn’t be seen associating with a member of the Hamilton family after that. If Arthur had been able to maintain his fortune, it might have been different. As it was, Strachan’s conscience was clear. A young man must seize the main chance and anyone who said otherwise was a liar.
He greeted Clara warmly as he would greet a long-lost sister. “Miss Hamilton, how long have you been in the neighbourhood? You are looking well.” He squeezed her hand with grave sincerity, hoping she would appreciate the gesture.
“I am well. Thank you, sir.”
She could not meet his eye he noted with a degree of satisfaction. “I am glad to hear it. Quite recovered then, are we?”
Clara removed her hand from his and twisted them together. Strachan watched her perform the nervous habit with pity.
Branson Hamilton took her arm and regarded Strachan with an impertinent stare. “My wife is in splendid health, Captain. I assume your interest is friendly?”
“Quite, yes, of course!” Strachan was visibly flustered. Completely knocked off his guard by the fellow’s rudeness. “Pardon me, sir—but did you say Miss Hamilton is your wife? I was not aware you had married so soon, Clara.”
Colonel Brockville clapped Strachan on the shoulder. “They couldn’t wait. They were married the night before last in a small ceremony, if you can believe it.” The old fellow blustered with exaggerated dismay. “We are grievously disappointed. But that is how it is with young people these days—impulsive. In a hurry. Oh, but look how in love they are, eh, my dear? Remember when we were as fresh with love as these two? They are a vision.”
“Indeed, they do look happy,” chirruped Mrs. Brockville. “Don’t you agree, Captain Strachan?”
Strachan eyed his former admirer with mixed emotions. Clara Hamilton had had a breakdown over him last spring. It was distressing to see how quickly she’d recovered. Could it be possible she no longer felt anything for him?
“You look very well, Clara. Marriage suits you.”
She met his eyes and he could see she was not the same Clara who had loved him so passionately. Unwisely passionate, as it turned out. Far too indiscreet for a young lady.
“I am quite happy, Captain. I trust you are well, and Miss Delisle?”
Trudy Delisle was waiting for the company to return from their ramble. Trudy did not like to walk and Strachan could not abide sitting over tea and news journals all morning. He looked with envy at Branson who was lucky to land a wife who enjoyed a ride before breakfast.
“My fiancée is quite well. You are kind to enquire. I shall send her your regards.”
“You must be looking forward to your wedding. I daresay that event will alleviate some of Colonel and Mrs. Brockville’s disappointment inflicted by Bran and myself.”
She smiled most becomingly. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled as she gazed at Branson who smiled at her—rather lecherously in Strachan’s opinion. Their wedding night must have made an impression on the fellow.
And on Clara too. Clara Hamilton was prettier than he remembered, and there was something else different about her
... he could not put his finger on it.
“Your stutter!” he cried enthusiastically. “What on earth has happened to your stutter? Oh, she used to stammer like a woodpecker—didn’t you, Clara? It was painful to sit through at times. What cured you?”
He honestly did not see the offence in this innocent remark. Clara Hamilton had been stuttering for years. It was a well-known joke to imitate her behind her back. Strachan didn’t see the harm in a little joke.
But Branson Hamilton’s blue eyes went as cold as winter ice. “The reason for my wife’s stammer was the staggeringly stupid conversation she was forced to endure in London. As soon as she was freed from certain unintelligent associations, Clara discovered she could speak without effort.”
Branson’s bow was civil, but Strachan knew he had been insulted and rather skilfully.
“Good day Mrs. Brockville. Colonel.” Clara took Branson’s arm. “We must take our leave. Bran promised me a tour of the estate and we still have so much to see.”
Strachan watched as Hamilton lifted Clara to the saddle and then mounted his horse. As they galloped away, he marvelled at her fine seat, her poise—everything about her had changed and for the better since marrying Hamilton.
There was something odd about their story. Strachan mulled it over on the walk back to Brockville’s estate. What was it?
He remembered Clara’s hands, twisting together, the knuckles visible through the thin leather riding gloves.
And then he knew.
She was not wearing rings.
Mrs. Brockville, Trudy, his future mother-in-law—in fact, all the ladies of his acquaintance wore their rings over their gloves.
Perhaps Clara left her wedding rings in her jewel box for safe-keeping. He must not jump to conclusions, especially with such a potentially explosive secret. But he would investigate. For all he knew Clara Hamilton was in the thrall of a mesmerist. The look in Hamilton’s eyes and the stories he’d heard portended to something nefarious going on at Windemere Hall.
Strachan would waste no time in finding out exactly what it was.
§
BRANSON KNELT at the hearth and kindled the fire. A light September rain pattered softly against the window. They were in his room. He said she would be more comfortable and Clara realized he was thinking of the vision she’d had of the woman last night. She meant to see if the bonnet was still there when she changed out of her riding habit, but she forgot.
Seeing Captain Strachan again had driven everything out of her mind. She was glad—intensely glad—that Branson had been there to speak for her, even if every word he said was a lie.
She pulled the sheet tighter over her breasts and hugged her knees to her chest as she watched her cousin coax the fire to a blaze. His mood had changed since this morning. Branson had been subdued throughout dinner and when he led her upstairs to take her to bed, he was very far away.
He was tender with her this time, entering her slowly to take him without pain. At one point, Clara felt so profoundly connected to Branson that she almost forgot he had taken her virtue through blackmail. And her cousin had not lifted his threat to see Arthur in prison.
But she could not account for this darkening of his spirit.
“Did it bother you seeing Strachan again?” he asked.
His tone was strange—stranger than usual. If she did not know him so well, she would think Branson was jealous. Clara had no desire to play the coquette.
“Yes,” she answered honestly. “It was unexpected, but it had to come sooner or later. I’m glad it’s over with. I confess I’ve been dreading seeing him ever since I was released from Dr. Hargreaves care.”
He stood and leaned his weight against the mantle, gazing pensively into the fire. “Something upset you before Strachan arrived. You were looking at the lake and then you fainted. You said something happened there.”
Clara worried her lower lip. “I don’t want to talk about it. I was being silly.”
“I don’t think you were. What did you see?”
“That is just it. I didn’t see anything. Nothing happened but in my mind.”
“Tell me.”
Clara’s heart pounded unaccountably. She was not used to being questioned about the hallucinations she’d suffered from girlhood. She did not know how Branson would respond. He was as haunted as she was in many ways. Remembering that gave her courage.
“Years ago, I had a vision of a red dress floating in a lake.” Clara shivered. “Dr. Hargreaves thinks I dreamt it but it was so real that I’ve never forgotten it. A young woman’s dress, very beautiful, scarlet silk, floating on the surface of the water in a crimson circle, It looked like a spill of blood. I was terrified. I tried to scream but my throat wouldn’t make a sound. I wanted to run but my legs wouldn’t move. It was like being caught in a nightmare.”
“And then what happened?”
Clara realized she was twisting her hands and immediately stopped. “I don’t know. I suppose I fainted. I can’t remember anything except the dress in the lake.”
“Who did the dress belong to?”
Branson’s questions were beginning to feel like an inquisition.
“There was no dress! It was a hallucination. Dr. Hargreaves explained that the dress did not exist in reality. It was a manifestation of my subconscious. He said it was my subconscious fear of menstruation. I don’t quite understand it; this form of treatment is still very new. But his analysis was helpful. I was able to recover once I understood the cause of the vision.”
“The woman you thought you saw in your room last night was wearing a red dress.”
She clamped her lips shut, refusing to answer.
“You said this was years ago,” Branson persisted. “How old were you?”
“I was twelve. This happened seven years ago. Honestly, I think I dreamt it as Dr. Hargreaves suggested.”
“That’s the age you were when you began to stutter.”
Clara turned away. “I don’t want to discuss it anymore. I’m tired.”
“Did you see this dress before, on a young lady perhaps?”
Clara ran her tongue over her dry lips. She was suddenly reluctant to talk about the girl she had seen wearing a red dress. She did not want to mention her name: Grace—the love of Branson’s life. By talking about her, Clara was afraid she would recharge the connection Branson had to his dead fiancée.
“There was one occasion ... perhaps it was this young lady’s dress I hallucinated. I have no way of knowing.”
She heard his breath catch. “What was her name?”
Her hands were trembling. “Mr. Schofield instructed me not to mention it.”
“What was the name of the young lady you saw in a red dress,” Branson asked evenly.
Clara lifted her eyes. Her nerves snapped. White hot fury boiled in her veins. “You already know the answer—why do you ask? Grace Leeds. Your fiancée was wearing a red silk afternoon dress when she arrived at Windemere Hall as your guest.”
She pounded the bed with her fists. Her skin felt like ice. “You have no right to question me! I was fine when I left Dr. Hargreaves’s clinic—quite happy until the moment my father introduced you as my betrothed. You will not make me doubt my sanity, Branson Reilly. You have taken my virtue; you’ve had your revenge, now leave me alone.”
“It is my room.”
“Find another,” she snapped. “You said you wouldn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to and I do not want you near me. Now, get out!”
§
“BRANSON REILLY inherited Windemere Hall six years ago, I believe it was. Old Leonard Hamilton adored the boy. Well, who could blame him? Branson did wonders keeping the place up. He was a Warden of sorts for the old man, managing the forests and tenants. He saw to repairs on the cottages and buildings and such-like. Few young men know how to do anything useful these days. Branson was a regular jack-of-all-trades.”
The drawing room glowed with light. Trudy Delisle was entertaining her hoste
ss at the pianoforte giving Strachan the opportunity to question Brockville in private about his neighbour.
“Leonard Hamilton could be eccentric but he had a soft spot for young Branson. No doubt that is why he left the estate to his stepson instead of his nephew, Edgar. I understand there were hard feelings, though Edgar and Branson were always on friendly terms.”
“They were at Oxford together. I used to be an intimate friend of the family.” Strachan took care not to give Clara Hamilton’s claims any weight with Trudy, but he knew he had not fooled Brockville.
“She’s married now, dear boy. You’ve lost your chance.”
“That’s just it, Colonel. I spoke to the vicar this afternoon and he was very surprised to hear there had been a wedding at Windemere Chapel the day before last. He has no record of it taking place.”
“Perhaps they were married in London and didn’t want to say as much and risk offending the vicar. He’s a tetchy fellow.”
“Perhaps.” Strachan frowned.
“I can tell you this—Mrs. Brockville was all astonishment. She hid it well but she told me later that Clara Hamilton was the last woman she expected Branson Hamilton to marry. The lad had some crisis or a breakdown of some sort some years ago. I never did hear the details. Only that he had befriended some scallywag who had done the dirty on him. Branson is a proud young man, always had been. Whatever the crisis was, he shut himself off from society at Windemere Hall and is rarely seen. I suppose he spends his evenings counting his money. God knows, he has enough of it.”
Strachan took advantage of the pause in Brockville’s narrative to steal a glance at Trudy. He was safe. His fiancée was utterly absorbed in discussing wedding preparations with Mrs. Brockville.
“I’d like to call on Clara but I don’t know how to arrange it without raising Hamilton’s ire. I had the distinct impression he didn’t like me.” Strachan grimaced.
“I wouldn’t take it personally. Branson Hamilton does not permit anyone to get close to him. He’s like a dog that’s been kicked once too often, though he’s had every kindness shown him. He’s too proud for the rough and tumble of country folk. He gives us a wide berth. I don’t say he is mean-spirited, but he is taciturn to the point of incivility. We’ve given up asking him to Petherham. He always refuses.”
Betrothed Page 9
