Chapter Five
London, England
November, 1800
Hector St. John-Smythe stormed down the steep stairway, still yelling imprecations at his wayward daughter. Slapping his bloodied riding whip against his boot, he twisted his puffy neck ‘round to bellow up from whence he came, “There's plenty more where that came from, you smart-mouthed piece. I'll not be gainsaid in my own house."
In the drawing room, Lady Judith sat on the yellow brocade love-seat, all of her children save one gathered about her. Celia and Caroline sat as close as they could, both too old to clutch at her as they had when they were younger, but little Raymond buried his face in her lap, shivering as the stomp of his father's boots sounded on the parquet squares of the entry-way. Lady Judith allowed one hand to fleetingly caress her son. “Sit up, Raymond. Papa is come for tea.” Her calm, quiet tones belied her inner turmoil.
The demon was on him again, she feared; the demon that drove her husband to such cruelty towards their eldest daughter. Merridyth, the first-born child conceived during a night of terror; the wedding night of this troubled marriage.
Five year-old Raymond lifted a tear-stained cherub face, pale with fear, to his mother's and whispered fiercely, “Don't want tea with Papa. He makes Merri cry, and I hate him. I hate him."
Lady Judith's two daughters sucked in a horrified breath at their brother's vehement statement. Their eyes flew to the door through which they could hear their father's raised voice, terrified that he might have heard Raymond's words and become angrier than he already was. But he was still shouting foul, threatening comments up the narrow stairway to their twenty year-old sister, who had once again been locked in her room.
The hinges of the parlor door protested as it was flung violently ajar. Hector St. John-Smythe—pronounced with the “y” as a long “i"—stood panting in the doorway, his squat body thickened by his addiction to strong drink and the over-indulgence of his sweet tooth.
Hector's mama had been a St. John, the youngest daughter of an Earl. She had fallen in love with a common shop-keeper, and run off to Gretna Green. Harold Smith had truly loved his lady, and through dint of hard work and determination, had built up a lively business in trade and shipping in order to keep his “treasure” in the style to which she had been born. He had succeeded beyond anyone's wildest thoughts, but no amount of success granted Harold entrance into the elite, reclusive upper ranks of the blue-blooded nobility. Mr. Smith cared nothing for the trappings of society, and his wife, due to the generosity of her sisters and brothers, was always invited to any events held in their numerous domiciles. Also, she was still accepted by others of the ton; school chums, family friends, and the like. But Hector, as the son of a Cit, was not so lucky. His aunts and uncles would have welcomed him, but he refused their invitations, fancying to himself that others in society were snickering behind his back. He resented the fact that his mother had married below her station, thus robbing him of his rightful place among the nobility, and his title. As the daughter of an Earl, she was always a “lady". As the son of a merchant, he was nothing but a “mister". Upon his mother's death, he broke his father's heart by rejecting any idea of involvement in the family company, demanding his patrimony. In cash. He cut himself off from all contact with Mr. Smith. Changing the spelling and pronunciation of Smith to Smythe, he hyphenated it with his mother's maiden name.
Though he was mostly gone to rack and ruin, there were still traces of the sinfully handsome young man who had inspired a young, innocent Lady Judith Fellowes to vehemently defy her parents in favor of his suit. His curly hair was still abundant, with only temporal slashes of gray amid the raven-wing black. His cloud-gray eyes could still sparkle with wit, though increasingly, that wit was hurtfully spiteful. The small cupid's bow lips that once were so romantical now served to exaggerate the loose jowls of his sunken cheeks. At the moment, those lips were pursed tight, jowls quivering in anger.
"Judith, I've just left that hoyden of a daughter of yours,” he began, his eyes narrowed accusingly on his wife. “She's deliberately balking me at every turn. And we know where she gets these ideas, don't we?” he asked as he stomped over to tower threateningly above Judith.
"You and your books. Your stupid belief that gels should be educated.” When he received no response to his taunt, he tried another tack. “Have you not been defying me at every turn?” His voice rose to an aggrieved wail as he spoke the greatest trespass. “Have you not even taught that uppity bitch to speak and read Greek?"
Lady Judith lowered her head, ashamed that her children had to witness their father's verbal abuse, and thanking God that her god-child Susan, her cousin's daughter, was currently out on a morning visit to a friend, thereby missing this ugly scene. Knowing her husband's moods and fits, she thought it hopeless to steer clear of a scalding scold, but felt moved to protest at any rate. “Please Hector ... the children—"
"The children, the children. What do I care if the children hear that their sister is a smart-mouthed slut, and that their disobedient mother has encouraged her in her waywardness? Beware, Madam,” he warned, brandishing his riding crop in threat, “If there is any further collusion between you and that unnatural child, your own back will burn."
After the many years of abuse, the threat of promised physical retaliation did not come as a surprise to Judith, but she had not taken into consideration that her children had never before heard their father offer her violence. She was not prepared for her son's brave reaction.
"Don't you hit my Mama.” Raymond shouted, coming to stand before Judith, his small arms outstretched to bar his father's way. “Go away. You jes’ go away, you bad man."
"Why, you insolent pup.” Hector snarled, reddening in anger, a pulse coming to throb at his temples. “I'll teach you to raise your hand to me,” he promised. Raising his whip, he brought it viciously down on his son's upraised arm, snarling, “You ungrateful little cur."
"Ow-ow. Mama. Mama, he hurt me.” Raymond screamed in outraged pain. Judith rushed to her little one, frantically seeking to soothe him. Celia and Cynthia watched, horrified, as a bloody welt rose livid against the tender, baby-soft skin.
"Mister Smith.” Lady Judith gritted out from between clenched teeth, finally losing her years-held control, “He is just a baby.” She gathered her youngest child against her breast. He was crying now, deep sobs spasmodically jerking his little body.
Hector stood staring down at his wife, the crop frozen in up-swing. “What did you call me?” he asked in an unbelieving, furious whisper. “What did you dare to call me?"
Lady Judith looked up from comforting her baby, her eyes holding a cold look of distaste. The long habit of fear momentarily broken as with steely determination, she locked gazes with her husband. “I believe you have an appointment at your club,” she stated quietly, not deigning to respond otherwise. “Please don't let us keep you—” A fine sarcasm colored that last statement, each word evenly spaced and enunciated as if the careful diction would hold back the expressions of utter loathing she felt towards her husband of twenty-one years.
* * * *
Hector slowly lowered the hand holding the bloody riding crop, even as his eyes dropped before his wife's icy glare. Somehow, in a way he could not understand, that look shook him to his very boots. His heart thumped once, then slid down somewhere around his belly. He felt shaken and uncertain. For the first time since his wedding day, Hector knew himself to be out of control. Without a word, he turned and exited the room. Lady Judith and her children waited with bated breath until they heard the sound of the front door opening, then closing behind him.
* * * *
The Honorable Merridyth Elaine St. John-Smythe gritted her small white teeth, stubbornly refusing to release the screams that clawed at her throat as she stretched to reach the tiny row of buttons down her back. She had received many lashings from her father over the years, but this one had been applied with an especially heavy hand. Wincing as she gingerly pulled
her torn, bloodstained dress away from her shoulders; Merri contemplated the depths of her father's anger and smiled. She might be hurting now, but she had won her point. Lord Ansel Wellmington, Viscount Worth, had been totally embarrassed by the show she had put on for his benefit. In response, he had withdrawn his offer of marriage. One Merri hadn't known about until two days ago.
Well, Merri mused, this flogging was worth the pain and discomfort if it rid her of the Viscount Worth's disgusting attention. Having watched her parent's marriage from close quarters, and being more aware of the true state of affairs than her mother realized, Merri possessed no desire to wed. The truth, plainly stated, was—she was terribly frightened. She paled at the idea of some man having the same total control over her as her father exercised over her mother. In fact, she had only ever once seen a man intriguing enough to cause her to contemplate marriage.
Two years ago, Jared Tyson, the Duke of Wyndmere, had been on trial for treason. While attending criminal trials was really not something that usually caught her fancy, a group of well-born young ladies had, with several gentlemen in attendance, planned to observe the highly publicized court proceedings. As one of those ladies was Merridyth's good friend, Rebeccah Henderly, who had prettily begged her to accompany them, she had given in to her pleas and made herself one of the party.
Listening and observing as all the evidence was brought against the Duke, Merri had found herself wondering what his motives could have been for betraying crown and country. Jared had everything, she had pointed out to her companions, immense wealth, extreme good looks and high family position. Treason for money was illogical in his case. Indeed, she had argued her point to some effect with the gentlemen of her party, unaware the Duke had heard her every word. For herself, she had found herself weighing his bearing, his air of righteous indignation, and could not allow any belief but that of innocence.
Merri paused in her soothing bath, sighing as she recalled how, in the midst of her impassioned speech, the Duke's eyes had suddenly swept the gallery and become entangled with hers. Met and clung...
His eyes had been the purest, darkest gold, bright and shining; molten as they bored into her very soul. It seemed, in that moment, that they communicated. It was as though he spoke without words, pleading for her to believe in his innocence. And she had believed ... oh, she had. After that one searing glance, Merridyth had known she had found the only man she could accept as her mate; one that had not frightened her. Merridyth had mourned as if for the death of a loved-one when they'd convicted him, sent him away into exile. In the intervening years, she often recalled with a sweet sadness, that final glance shared between them before they'd rudely jerked him away. That glance had promised so much...
During her self-imposed time of mourning, her father had introduced several suitors for her approval. Successful at turning away the majority of her suitors without her father's knowledge, Merri had grown a bit complacent. Now Worth had disrupted everything. She found his sudden, persistent pursuit unsettling, especially when she discovered he had already gained her father's permission to speak to her.
Yet, it had been easy engineering the one thing certain to send Worth away speedily. She'd simply staged an occasion where she publicly discoursed with several gentlemen on the sexual vagaries of Aristotle's Masterpiece, such knowledge being a subject every highborn female was expected to be in well-bred ignorance of. To top all, she'd debated the facts in Greek, and had the audacity to win.
Such behavior had immediately set her beyond the pale as far as Worth was concerned. Merri was sure he would allow no wife of his to have a sensible thought in her head. Should such a thought happen to take up momentary residence, it would be her duty to diligently chase it away; never, ever letting it escape in polite society.
A deep chuckle broke from Merri as she closed her eyes and saw again the appalled look on Viscount Worth's face when confronted with the fact that she was an unrepentant, dyed-in-the-wool bluestocking.
Kicking her ruined dress in to the corner of her small room, she stretched out on her bed, stuffing several pillows under her chest to prop her up. Hands under her chin, legs lazily crossed at the knees, she watched the clouds scudder past the small area of sky captured by her open window frame. The cool afternoon breeze fluttering her sheer, flowered curtains felt good flowing over her torn flesh.
Merri took one look at the soft cotton length of her nightrail, and knew she could not tolerate even that light material against her throbbing back. Oh, she would eventually pull one on, for she knew Berta, her long-time maid and friend, would soon be up to comfort her. The simple woman would be shocked to find her charge lazing about in the all-together. She'd dress, but not just yet. First, she would just close her eyes and rest for a moment—
Her head lowered to the satin pillow, and soon she was dreaming, impaled by a pair of golden, honey-warm eyes...
* * * *
Lady Judith sighed and glanced out the window taking a break from the letter she was penning. Her cousin-in-law, the Countess Fellhaven, had requested information on her daughter's first London season. Judith could sympathize with Lorinda's thirst to share even minimally in her daughter's season, while being confined at home awaiting the birth of a child.
This child had come as a surprise to both her and the Earl. At thirty-seven, Lady Lorinda was somewhat beyond the usual age for birthing without problems. Many years had passed since she had last conceived and she'd suffered three miscarriages before finally giving birth to Susan. Lady Lorinda desperately wanted to bring this infant to term. Her unspoken hope was for a male child to secure the continuation of the Fellowes family name and title, and was relieved that Susan understood her concerns, and agreed with her precautions. When her doctor, after a thorough fifth-month examination, ordered complete bed-rest, she was determined to comply, even though it meant giving up accompanying her daughter to London.
Though Lady Lorinda bore a perpetual air of sadness about her for failing to give her husband an heir, everyone could see her failure in no way lessened her esteem in Andrew's doting eyes. Theirs was a true love-match, and Judith envied them their marital bliss. She also knew that her cousin, Andrew, cared not a whit about the sex of the coming child. His one concern was for his wife.
They had married long before Andrew came into his late uncle's title, and had struggled through lean times together, Lorinda never complaining, knowing how badly Andrew needed to feel that he was supporting his small family adequately. She had always joined with her husband in politely rejecting the funds that the Earl of Fellhaven had offered many times to help ease their lot...
An urgent rapping on her private sitting-room door had Lady Judith looking up to behold Berta, Merri's long-time maid, standing in the doorway, her freckles burning against her pale cheeks. She was wringing her hands in agitation.
"What is it, Berta?” she asked, gently, motioning the young girl to come in.
"Oh, Mum.” Berta exclaimed, “I can’ get inta Miss Merri's room. Master didn’ leave the key in the usual place. I been up to check on her, and she don’ answer a’ tall. I heard master hit her sompen fierce this time, and I'm that worrit ‘bout her ... she don’ usually cry out so—"
Lady Judith cringed inwardly as she listened to the upset maid. “I think her father might have taken the key with him. I've asked Mrs. Davies to look through her set of the household keys for a duplicate, and sent one of the footmen after my husband. Meanwhile, you're not to worry.” Judith came around her desk to place her arm about the chubby serving-girl's shoulders.
"In future, my husband shall no longer be indulging his habit of striking the members of this household,” she promised grimly, giving the girl a reassuring squeeze. “As for your concern for Merri, she's more than likely napping. We'll go up now and check on her, shall we?” The look they exchanged said that both knew Merri had just cause to be worn out. Mistress and maid both proceeded to Merri's locked door. Tapping gently, Judith called out, “Merri, darling. Merri,
are you all right?"
"Mum...?” Thick and clumsy with sleep, Merridyth's muffled voice came through the dense door panels.
"Sweeting, we can't find the key. I've sent Harn around to your father's clubs with a note asking him to send the key home so we might let you out. I know you must be famished. Are you all right, otherwise, dear?"
"I'm fine. Just sleepy. So-o-o sleepy—"
"Then you just rest, my dear. Berta will sit outside your door should you need anything. I shan't make you wait too long. If necessary, I'll have this door removed."
Berta watched her mistress's face, awed at the new strength evident there. Perhaps things would be looking up.
Chapter Six
Selim, You are not to worry. Indeed, I am much improved. The doctor termed it a serious case of influenza, but I swear I am much better now. Raeburn took it upon himself to oversee everything during my illness. He has practically moved in. His concern is that of an old family friend, and I was grateful for his help. He has been a pillar of strength to me. I feel I cannot leave the running of Wyndmere to Jason, often as he has offered. Really, he has not been trained for it. And it would not be proper to burden Arnold with the handling of my affairs. He is not, after all, a family member. Truthfully, I confess to an uneasiness regarding how Jared might respond to my presence. It is difficult enough to live with his second-hand rejections. I could not bear to be scorned by him in the flesh. You see, I am a coward where he is concerned. How goes the plot to distract him with your Muslim women? Take care your plan does not backfire, and he become enamored of one of your Turkish women. Please, convey my love once more. So Jared is now going by the name, Jamal? Since childhood he has been curious as to why we named him that. Now he knows.—Emily
London, England
Early Afternoon
Feathers in the Wind: The Cygnets Page 4
