And yet . . . as she grew more accustomed to Uncle Bertie’s odd script, she began to wonder. It seemed, almost, as if Rodney had used his uncle’s translation as a handbook. It was quite acceptable, the book said, for a man to have a love affair for money. If he were penniless and a woman could make him rich, there was no fault in taking her to wife. Another section advocated seizing a woman by her hair, and approved scratching, biting, and striking. Shortly thereafter, the text stated that kisses, slaps, and sighs should also be constantly employed during physical relations.
Sighs . . . that she could understand, but how could kisses be included in a description which sounded more like combat than love? As she searched for other legible phrases, one leaped out at her, bringing a smile. While scratching and biting, one must not leave marks on other men’s women. Beth’s smile didn’t last. For increasing a lover’s excitement, she read, for successful relations, cruelty is essential. The manuscript went so far as to list the eight types of cries a woman might make. Although the ancient text also stated that a woman was free to retaliate in kind, shivers crept up Beth’s spine. She kept on reading.
At last, she discovered a moment of enlightenment. The author who had recorded these ancient mating instructions had added his own opinion: causing suffering was not a respectable practice.
Was that it, then? Had she found in this recital of what men did to women and women to men, women to women, and men to men and boys, the answer to what was really wrong with her marriage? Did Rodney want—need—the kind of gratification he could only get from a much more robust or less delicately reared woman? One who could accept, or willingly tolerate, pain?
The thought brought bile to her throat. Dread . . . hopelessness filled her small frame. That’s why Rodney went to Exeter. For what he was too much the English gentleman to ask of his wife. Except—sometimes—when he couldn’t seem to control his need for violence.
It was horrible. Humiliating. Painful. And here in her hand was a book which said violence was an act of love.
She wouldn’t believe it! Not ever.
Beth’s fingers fisted around the book. Instead of smooth paper, she felt a rough surface, heard the soft sound of rustling . . . leaves. Horrified, she found she was staring down at the austere Buddha, the stack of brittle palm leaves clutched between her fingers. Uncle Bertie’s translation had been restored to the top shelf days earlier. Appalled, Beth inspected the fragile leaves with care. Somehow the thousand-year-old pages seemed to have survived. With shaking fingers she added the palm leaf manuscript to her inventory, then carefully placed it back on the shelf.
She needed to get out, away from this seething cauldron where even books advocated violence. Away from the manor house which had become anything but a Refuge. Outside, spring had come to the moor. Pink clouds of magnolias, rhododendrons in every shade of rose, soft gray catkins, a colorful carpet of flowers, both wild and in the garden. Even the moor was beginning to brighten into softer shades of green and brown in the inevitable renewal of the cycle of life. And here she sat, closeted in a windowless storage room.
Where she was safe. Where Rodney wouldn’t find her.
But if he did?
It was impossible to be good, that was the lesson the past few weeks had taught her. The only thing which would please her husband was the conception of a child. And that had not happened. He had returned to her bed, outwardly composed, affectionate, even charming. If the imprint of his hand on her bottom hadn’t been permanently fixed in her brain, she would have thought she’d imagined her beating. And then, one evening in the drawing room, when she’d asked him what had happened to Uncle Bertie’s jewelry, his gargoyle face snapped into place. “Gone back to India,” he roared. “Stolen by those forever damned heathen women and their brats. Mountains of it,” he added, nostrils flaring as he huffed his disgust. “Rubies, diamonds, jade, every damn precious stone you can think of. But what did you care? You’re the Cit Princess with more money than God. Isn’t a noble husband, a title, a manor house enough for your greedy little fingers?
She’d stood there, cringing—in spite of all his bluster, not expecting what happened next. His fist clipped her jaw, sending her sailing across the room to land in a heap on the marble hearth. She woke in her own bed, with Mrs. Ferris and Ellie hovering over her, their eyes wide with horror. Both women showed signs of recent tears. When Beth learned she had tripped on the rug and fallen, she knew neither woman believed it. But there was nothing to be done. It was a husband’s right to discipline his wife.
If he ever found out how much time she spent in the Treasure Room . . .
She supposed she should be grateful there had been no more visits from the raven-winged murderer. But why, then, should he bother? Her husband was quite threatening enough. If they were not one and the same. Rodney had decided Beth should be able to join the hunt. She, the city girl who had never needed skills beyond riding in the park. They’d had a confrontation at a fence, Beth declaring she was not going to jump it, Rodney insisting that she should. She’d shouted at him, demanding to know if he wished to kill his heir. Then she’d turned and galloped home, clinging to her mare’s mane as if her life depended on it. Which it likely did.
There was no escape, of course. That night, after discovering she’d been speaking in possibilities, not fact, Rodney had used his riding whip on her, sparing only her face from the long red welts.
Beth swallowed her pride and wrote to Tildy, for the first time admitting her plight. Incredibly, there was no answer. In fact, Beth received no letters of any kind. No hasty notes from her father or cheerful and slightly naughty on dits from Jack. No messages from Cat or Amabel. Her family and friends might as well have been as far away as Terence. The explanation was all too obvious—her husband received all mail, and he had cut her off from family and friends. She was isolated. Alone.
Except for Nell Archer. Without her new friend, Beth feared she might go mad. Or simply shrivel up and die. The friendship of the great diva was like a lighthouse in a raging sea, her anchor against the storm. She was still lying to her new friend about her injuries, of course, just as she frequently lied to herself. Her bruises were explained away, her days of weakness and ill health. For each time Rodney insisted he hadn’t meant to hurt her. She was his wife, the woman who would be mother of his children. He cared for her, he really did. He was sorry, so very sorry. It would never happen again.
And each time she believed him. Because she wanted to. Because pride kept her from admitting her marriage was a disaster. Because she allowed herself to believe that if she were truly with child, everything would be all right. Rodney would be happy. Their marriage would transform into something more closely resembling the usual society merger of land, wealth, or title. They would be civil, possibly even affectionate, moving through life almost independently, except for an occasional merger to produce another child. Surely, surely that’s what would happen in her own situation. If she were increasing, Rodney would cease this terrible violence, would . . .
But when her monthly courses had come three days ago, he’d beaten her senseless. With whip and fist, going so far as to raise a poker over his head before allowing it to clatter to the floor. This time they’d had to send for the doctor, who had not asked a single question, but whose grim countenance left no doubt of his opinion of men who beat their wives.
And still Beth wavered, recalling the look of approval Rodney had given her when she had sung with Nell Archer at Squire Blunden’s. Glancing fearfully at her husband as she returned to her seat, she had been astonished to discover him smiling. Evidently, she—his possession—had done well, her credit reflecting back on him. Relief nearly overwhelmed her as she realized she would be allowed to continue her visits to her idol.
But today, sitting alone in this room filled with works of art, Beth knew she could no longer tolerate her life with her husband. It was not sufficient to tell herself they would be returning to London in a month or so. She must act now. And yet i
t seemed she had no will to take the initiative. As if her spirit had been beaten out of her. It was so much easier to do . . . nothing.
She looked around the room, feasting on the ancient and exquisite beauty surrounding her. She raised her eyes to Uncle Bertie’s painstakingly transcribed Rules of Love. There was the spur she needed, the tinder to spark the anger that would bring back at least a shadow of the independent young woman she used to be. She was not alone. Less than two miles distant was a friend. And, in London, a veritable army of avengers.
She’d known about Terence’s and Jack’s men for years, the band of well-trained, well-armed private soldiers who made sure the wheels and cogs of Tobias Brockman’s vast empire ran smoothly. All she had to do was make sure someone received her cry for help. Tildy should be the easiest to reach. Papa and Jack could be anywhere from Leeds to Edinburgh to Dublin. And God alone knew where Terence was.
Beth took a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer in her desk and began to write.
At long last, it was done. Nell accepted the letter without a blink, her façade of worldly sophistication so firmly in place Beth could only wonder if she imagined the compassion in those beautiful blue eyes. Except for occasional murmurs of, “My dear, are you sure you’re quite well?” the older woman did not intrude into her private life, although there were times Beth was certain she could sense questions hovering on Nell Archer’s tongue. They were not yet old friends, and Beth’s abominable pride would not let her admit what she viewed as her complete failure as a wife. Even now, when she knew better, the words would not come. How could she turn to Nell Archer and say, “My husband beats me. My husband craves violence. Two nights ago, he nearly killed me”?
The day she had written her letter to Tildy, the one to be sent via Nell Archer, Rodney had returned in his usual cheerful mood following his excursions to Exeter. Even as Beth despised herself for being foolish, she once again welcomed his embraces, caught up in a whirlwind of hope, with only the ever-present cloud of wariness on the horizon. Perhaps she would simply keep the letter hidden for a while. Until she could be truly certain there was no hope. A child, she told herself for the thousandth time, surely that would be the answer. With a child, with children, Rodney would feel fulfilled. Be content.
Or would his violence be turned on them as well?
Stricken by this dire prospect, far worse than any thought she’d had before, Beth lay awake, Rodney slumbering quietly beside her. Pushing back the bed curtains, she gazed down at the handsome features illuminated by moonlight. A lock of warm brown hair fell over his noble brow, dangling toward a strong aristocratic nose jutting out over lips which were, incredibly, eminently kissable. Soft, warm, and highly expert. He didn’t look like a monster. But he was. She must never forget that. Nor allow herself to be soft or forgiving. To believe their troubles were her fault, that if she could only be good . . . not make him angry . . . if she could give him a child, all would be well.
Beth jumped as Rodney muttered, moved restlessly on his pillow. Of what did he dream? she wondered. He was so expert at creating nightmares while awake, what need had he for dreams?
She closed the bed curtain, slid carefully back into her pillow so she would not disturb him. Who could guess which Rodney might awake? The lover or the beast. Closing her eyes, she made a vow. Tomorrow she would drive into Dunscombe and ask Nell Archer to post her letter to Tildy.
But she didn’t. For she had barely slipped into slumber when she awoke to hands around her neck. She gasped, choked, tried to call out. No sound beyond a croak. No air, no air! She struggled in the thick blackness, fighting for breath, fighting for her life. Though no match for her husband in strength, she remembered a lesson Terence had taught her. Concentrate! You can do it. Hard. Mean. Nasty. Now!
Beth’s knee made contact. A grunt of pain, the hands fell away. Rolling sideways, she fell to the floor, scrambled out from under the bed curtains, crawled to the fireplace. Poker in hand, she stood ready for the enraged nobleman who shoved the curtains aside and stood swaying before her, gasping a string of curses.
“Bloody hell, woman,” Rodney roared when he saw her, poker raised in defiance, “what’s happening here?”
Wordlessly, unable to even whisper, she’d pointed to the fingermarks on her throat.
“Fuck!” Rodney breathed and fell back on the bed, knees buckling. Beth stood warily, poker high. When he finally took his head out of his hands, he was full of apologies. He’d had a bad dream, he told her. Had thought he was fighting a Muslim warrior in one of the Crusades. He was sorry, so very sorry. He couldn’t believe he had done such a thing. Dear God, but she must forgive him. He never intended to hurt her.
She lowered the poker to the marble hearth but kept it gripped in her hand. For once, Rodney retreated, seemingly genuinely shocked by his actions. He limped back through the dressing room to his own bed. Beth, tiptoeing after, turned the key in the lock.
It was two days before she felt well enough to make the trip to Dunscombe to see Nell Archer. There had been no music that day. No bel canto, no duets. Beth, her voice still hoarse—a cold she told Nell, just a cold—was afraid she might never be able to sing again. And now she was on her way home, driving the pony cart over the downs with a groom up beside her. Will Jenks was a good companion. After discovering the dangers of the moor first-hand, Beth made no objections to his accompanying her to Dunscombe. A young man not much older than herself, Will was full of good cheer and easy temperament. One day, after a bit of gentle teasing, he’d admitted that, yes, he was walking out with Sally, the parlor maid. And, best of all, he never seemed to mind her driving, though he wasn’t above giving a bit of advice or keeping a firm hand on the brake down the moor’s precipitous slopes.
Spring on Dartmoor was surprisingly lovely, Beth thought as they drove the high downs. Even the oh-so-stupid sheep that kept wandering into the path of the pony cart seemed like marvelous fluffy decorations on the treeless landscape. She’d done it. She’d actually done it. Her letter was even now being posted to London. Was it possible Terence was home? Tildy would show him her letter, and he would come. He would never ignore her plea for help. And then there was Jack. Dear Jack. One of them would come. And she shouldn’t forget her papa, whose power went far beyond his private army, stretching all the way into the financial institutions that fueled the realm, even into considerable influence in Parliament itself. She would be free, of course she would.
If she lived long enough.
Jenks tightened his grip on the brake as they began their descent from the village toward the narrow valley that sheltered the Refuge. Beth’s eyes widened as she glanced at the river below. Surely it hadn’t been so high when they crossed it earlier that day. But now, swollen by spring run-off, the river tumbled over its boulder-strewn bed, splashing high against the stone bridge they must cross after a sharp left turn at the bottom of the hill. The wooden brake squealed. Beth kept the reins taught, calling softly to her pony. Slow and steady—
Snap! The sound split the crisp air like the crack of a bullet. Beth lurched to one side as she found herself holding a single rein in her left hand; in her right, a dangling strip of useless leather. Jenks grabbed for the snapped rein, but it was already trailing on the ground. The pony, frightened and confused, plunged down the hill, unchecked. Jenks struggled with the brake, but it was too late. The cart, careening wildly, threatened to spill them out at any moment.
The pony would turn onto the bridge, Beth told herself. He’d made this journey so many times, he had to know the way home. But it wasn’t happening. They were rocketing straight ahead toward a river flooding over a jumble of granite. Bushes tore at her as the cart soared off the road. Will Jenks wrapped his arms around her as they kept going, narrowly missing the only tree large enough to stop their progress. The pony hit the water, slipped and fell. The cart tilted, went over, wheels and body splintering against the rocks.
Too late, Beth thought, in the final moment before her head hit granit
e. She’d sent her letter too late.
London, April 1817
Terence stood at the rail and gazed out at the teeming activity of the London docks. It never failed to fascinate him. He’d loved the waterfront along the River Liffey, the thrill of knowing the ships came from such a wonder of far-off places, but here in London, the sight was magnified ten-fold. This, then, was the hub of the universe. The commerce that made Britain great. This was his world. The world of Terence O’Rourke. He might own a bit of the New World, but this was home.
High above the warehouses and taverns along the docks towered the dome of St. Paul’s. And around it the City of London—the banks, ancient guildhalls, the offices of Tobias Brockman & Company. His office. His friends and colleagues. And to the west—Terence’s gaze followed his thoughts—to the west, the elegant residences of Mayfair, the discreet shops, and spacious parks. Brockman House in Cavendish Square.
But Beth wasn’t there.
Not that it mattered. She could be nothing to him now.
Terence looked down at his companion. “There it is, my dear. London. Waiting to be conquered. Never say I don’t keep my promises.”
Rochelle Dessaint pushed back her bonnet, allowing her dusky curls to fly on the wind. Eyes shining, she gazed out over the world’s greatest city. At last. A setting worthy of her talents.
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