What would he say when he saw her out of her bedchamber? Would he measure his words and offer a dutiful kiss on the forehead, one meant for his poor sick wife? What if he were just waiting for her to be strong enough to tell her he didn't, couldn't love her anymore?
The day he discovered she carried his child, he canceled all his appointments and had James take them for a long carriage ride. Barrington chased away her nausea by feeding her sweet ice from Gunter's. He'd kissed her between spoonfuls of the lemony goodness.
No, nothing compared to when he was truly happy with her. Pity, those moments were rare.
She clamped her fingers onto the rail then paced up the treads. She'd rather go to the attic and imagine she'd climbed Papa's oak. There she could pretend her mind was well, her marriage whole.
The door to the large space creaked open and exposed a room filled with portmanteaus and old furnishings. Dust filled the air, but no other place in the house had better windows. The leaded panes let in London's sun. When it showered, a rainbow became visible and the glass cast orange and blue hues on the walls. Color.
She stepped deeper inside and saw her crimson trunk. With a little bit of grunting, she tugged it closer to the window. Her wardrobe before their marriage was stashed in the big leather box.
Barrington had the top mantua-maker on Bond Street design her matronly gowns in "becoming" colors, heavily textured fabrics for his fingers. He gave Amora little say, calling them presents. If she'd spoken up and expressed her displeasure, he may have listened. Maybe. Maybe not.
Well, since she wasn't going to get any bigger any time soon, she wouldn't need to purchase new silks of gold or woolens of sage.
A moan slipped from her throat. Loss swept in again and filled her vacant insides. No baby.
Why did his god hate her so much?
Hadn't she suffered enough?
She eased onto the windowsill and coddled her empty middle, rubbing her palms repeatedly over the sad muslin fabric.
A diversion. That's what she needed. No more thinking about what couldn't be changed. Opening the trunk, she sunk her hands into an emerald gown and a garnet shawl. She remembered music, dancing with Papa wrapped in these treasures. Colors. She missed seeing them. Painting was once like breathing.
Her knuckles ached a little. She looked down. Her fingers had clenched as if she played Papa's pianoforte.
A duet of Haydn's music with her father always made her smile. One-two-three, one-two-three. Oh, she missed his music most of all. Papa would stick in an extra chord in the refrain, something that only she would catch. Their private joke. Others thought it original to the tune. Thinking of him, she felt lighter, found herself humming.
Digging deeper, she found a walking dress of dark blue, a bonnet with bright puce ribbon. Nothing pale or dull in this box. Mother bought many gowns to make amends for not believing Amora and for every unkindness she'd rendered.
Liar.
Harlot.
Sorry.
Forgive me.
Forgiving her mother was a hopeless gesture for Amora. A sigh blasted out. What was left if you couldn't remember the past without anger, and now you hated the present?
She took her fisted hand and punched deeper into the box, down to her old painting smock. The red and bronze stains. She hadn't had a chance to sponge them. An argument with her grieving mother had sent Amora running to the orchard with just paint, a canvas, and an easel. That afternoon, the sun warmed the thick heather grasses as her garnet skirts danced at her feet. Then a hit from behind and blackness.
Her nightmares tried to restore her missing memories of what happened next. Maybe she should just give in and remember the monster in the dark. Shaking, she fisted her hands. "Nothing to do with you."
She covered her mouth and thought of the one person who always believed in her. Papa. His love was constant. He'd have chased her nightmares away, and wouldn't think her weak or changed because of it.
He would've rescued her.
Swallowing, she peered again into the trunk. Her fingers landed on an old leather case. A faint scent of tart turpentine pushed out. Her old paint set. Mother must've stuck it in here.
Were the brushes inside?
For the first time in years, the urge to create gripped her spirit. Her thumb and palm burned where a pallet should be.
Barrington ran into the room. "There you are!"
Heart slammed against her ribs as if she'd been caught doing something naughty. She lifted from the box and dropped the lid.
"I didn't mean to frighten you. I just wanted…" He sucked in a deep breath as if he'd been chasing a villain. His face glowed brick red, almost fevered.
Was he sick? "Barrington, has something happened?"
He cleared his throat and came closer. "I just had to see you."
Marching past her, he headed straight to the window. His palms went over the glazing and the old latch. "It hasn't opened in years."
A swish of air released from his nostrils as he ran a hand over his lapel.
"Are you well, Barrington? You seem disturbed."
He pivoted, stepped back to her and pulled her into his arms.
She went stiffly. Her body wedged against him, as warm as a wooden plank.
"Something the vicar said made me very concerned, but it's nonsense. You'd come to me if you were troubled. No matter how angry you are, you know you can confide in me."
His arms held her tight against his charcoal waistcoat. "I know you feel sometimes as if I don't love you enough. Yes, things are different. But we haven't drifted so far apart."
She pushed at his shoulders, but he wouldn't let her go. Instead he stroked her back, caressed her curves with his big hands.
They'd shared a bed almost every night. Of course he knew how to make her melt into him. Did he still want her, even with no baby?
"You can tell me anything, Amora. There's nothing, we can't face together."
"Anyth--"
His mouth was on hers before she could say more. Fingers on her waist tickled, cajoled. Others rummaged her curls, easing the strain in her neck.
If the truth came out, would he desire her then? No, he wouldn't. She gave his waist a shove. "No. Barrington."
"Please, Amora. Just take my love. I'll make it enough. This time I will."
His deep voice sounded as if he'd finished a court argument. He lifted her chin and took her mouth again. Yet, his reasoning was merely passion. Would it be sufficient?
She could make her arms willing, until she figured things out. It wasn't hard when Barrington was sweet and kissed her as if he needed to sample the air trapped in her lungs.
She clasped her palms on his lapels ruining his perfect cravat. Clinging to him, she hoped to feel his heart. This could be one of the last times she'd know its heavy beat. He'd want nothing to do with her when Cynthia made good on her threat.
Barrington kissed her more deeply. His heart felt ragged and bruised. When Mrs. Gretling said Amora had gone to the attic, all he could think about was the vicar's stupid warning. An image of her jumping headlong from the high window filled him.
Daft vicar. At least the thought of losing Amora shook Barrington from his fog. He flew up the stairs, as if he had wings.
God might be busy again, so it must be Barrington's responsibility alone to protect his wife. He'd ignored earlier signs of her distress and thought her unease was simply hesitation to attend the party. God gave warnings, but it was up to Barrington to act upon them.
Oh, she was so soft, so perfectly curved. Even with all her flaws, no one made him this crazed, made this man of logic lose all reason. He scooped her from the floor, higher into his arms. The buttons on the sleeves of her dark gown bore into his muscles. He didn't care. He couldn't get enough of her warm lips shivering beneath his.
If only they could come to an understanding. Maybe if he never stopped kissing her, all would be well.
He'd do better at making her happy. He owed it to her for not being wi
th her when she miscarried, for leaving her to grieve with strangers.
His thumbs caught in the back seam of her gown. A desire to shelter her, to prove his new commitment, made him tug at the muslin.
"Barrington." She pushed at his shoulders. "I'm not ready."
Oh, that lack of reason. He very well couldn't love her so soon after a miscarriage or take her on the hard floor of the dusty attic. He relented and lowered her until her slippers again touched the ground. "We lost the baby and that broke our hearts, but we must go on. There could be another child, one with your violet eyes. We haven't lost us."
She pulled up her sleeve. "Things weren't well before I was pregnant. What if I'm not meant to carry a babe? I may never be blessed with that joy." She rubbed her temples. "I can't stand to see a doctor covering up another poor--"
He put a finger to her lips. His innards shredded at the agony in her voice. She shouldn't relive their baby's loss. "Don't give up on us."
"Mr. Norton, it's time to go. You'll be late for court." James's merry voice fell upon Barrington's shoulder. Horrid timing.
"I'll be down soon. Pull the carriage around." He closed his eyes as the weight of his trial load fell into remembrance.
Amora stepped away from him. "You should go. Don't be late."
"I've been remiss these past weeks missing a number of sessions, but my mentor and colleagues understand. They wish you well."
Her cheeks darkened as she repinned her gown. "Oh, I see."
"I even missed Miss Miller's debut. Gerald up in heaven will just have to understand, there's only one woman I'm concerned about."
"Concerned?" She spun toward the window. "I'm feeling better. You can go to the Old Bailey or visit with Gerald's sister."
Why did it feel as if he'd thrown icy water on Amora? She even rubbed her arms as if she were chilled. "Yes, Cynthia is alone. I promised Gerald as he took his last breath to watch over her."
"Keep your promises. Go to work." She pivoted and waved at him as if he were a stray pup. "Miss Miller or a client needs you more."
Why did she feel threatened by his responsibilities? His work was important. His clients needed him too. Beakes might've learned more about the date Smith offered on the eve of his execution. The frustration swelling in his heart threatened to explode. "Amora, you're not being fair."
"Life is not fair. Leave me. I want you to go."
The temptation to pull her back into his arms hurt, twisting his gut. Maybe he could shirk his responsibilities one more day. Would that prove his devotion?
She took another step away. Her countenance held no smile, just narrowing violet eyes. "Have a good day."
Gut roiling, he pivoted. Arguing at the Old Bailey would release the tension caught in his limbs. When would he get this marriage balance right?
He dragged to the steps. "I'll be home early for dinner."
Her face remained blank, even as she nodded.
A chill swept through him as she moved to the window seat. What if she didn't want him to get it right? What if this loss gutted her longing for their marriage, her longing for him?
No, he'd prove himself to her. He'd not disappoint her again.
Chapter Five: Truth Should Set You Free
Thank goodness for Thursday. Thursday meant newborns at the Foundling Hospital and that was a reason for Amora to pretend that she was better. Barrington and Mrs. Gretling wouldn't let her come if they suspected how low her spirits sat. Cynthia hadn't gotten Barrington's attention yet, but she would.
How miserable it was to wait each day for Barrington to come home filled with accusation or worse to not come home, too shamed and disgusted.
Liar.
Harlot.
Sorry.
Forgive me.
She rubbed her temples to force away the sounds of her mother's and Barrington's voices blending in evil pronouncements.
"Mrs. Norton?"
Amora blinked a few times and adjusted the babe in her arms. "Yes."
The duchess of Cheshire looked over the smallish crib in the corner. "Mrs. Norton, I am so glad you've chosen this to be your charity."
Nodding at the friendly smile, Amora rocked the orphaned boy, tucking a blanket under his chubby chin. "Yes, I can think of no greater cause than to help the defenseless."
The young woman smiled genuinely. Her lips curled up into something true and honest.
She wasn't what Amora thought of as a duchess. Not stuffy or pretentious, the duchess didn't put on airs. She used her hands for the care of children and that took a special heart. When the duchess mentioned her husband, she glowed like a new bride should.
Amora closed her eyes for a moment remembering when Barrington finally came for her. For a month maybe, she looked like Lady Cheshire with stars in her eyes, but stars only shine at night. And night brought bad memories. Then terror came anew.
Now it started to creep into her day, waking dreams.
"Mrs. Norton. Mrs. Norton? Are you well?"
Shivering, Amora looked up. "Yes." She waited for her rising pulse to settle and counted the babe's sniffle snores. It took over thirty for the chill in her arms to go away and for her brain to accept that she was safe in the Foundling Hospital, years and miles away from the monster.
The duchess smoothed her Sardinian blue bodice and headed for the door. "Well, I am going to start story time with the older girls. I hope to see you next week. I don't know very many people in London. I'd like to start with furthering our acquaintance. The duke thinks highly of Mr. Norton."
Amora nodded. "Yes, Duchess."
The woman began to move but stopped. "I'm perfectly serious, Mrs. Norton. I'd like to get to know you better."
With a final beaming smile, the duchess left.
A friend in London. A friend anywhere would be nice. The last time she had a friend…
What was the girl's name? Sky-blue eyes. Gold Hair. Why couldn't she remember?
Mrs. Gretling soon sailed inside wearing her satisfied smile. Things must be going well with all of her errands around the hospital.
She came close and peaked at the blanket. "How are ye doing with this tiny man, Mrs. Norton?"
"He's settled. His little lips are puckering from a little wind in his belly that tugged his gums."
"He looks very happy with ye, ma'am. But it's time to put the babe down." Mrs. Gretling's sherry eyes flickered from the door to the line of cribs. "You've had him up for awhile and we can't take him with us."
Did her abigail think Amora would run out of the hospital with the child in tow? Yes, she wanted a child, but abducting anyone was beyond the pale. "Not done showing... umm, Tomàs, the room." The babe looked like Papa, with fat cheeks and a bald head. "This one was left on the steps of St. Georges. Only a dented thimble to mark him."
"That's where the unwed deposit them. Poor creature. It's a shame when women like ye so want a child." Mrs. Gretling put a trembling hand to her mouth. She turned and drew the shabby curtains closed. "I didn't mean to remind ye."
The longing, the one that never went away, expanded within Amora's chest and crushed her lungs. Trying to relearn to breathe, she thought of Tomàs as hers, and Barrington smiling, happy with Amora for giving him a son. She sniffed a bitter portion of air. That day would never come.
"Sorry, Mrs. Norton."
Not wanting her loyal abigail to fret, she schooled her face, forced her dry lips to curl. "Thank you for bringing me."
The old woman's lanky fingers reached for a pale blue blanket from the closet. "Ye seem so happy here, and I know this one is grateful for ye here." Her thick Scottish accent made the abigail's words feel weighty, like ancient wisdom. "We won't see him next week. In the morn, the administrator will send 'im to the wet nurses in the countryside."
"Nothing like fresh air and wide open spaces for children." The Tomàs's orchards, the dark-green wilderness laced with Pippins, that's where she wanted to be now. "What child wouldn't love the country over crowded London?"
&nbs
p; "I often think that too."
The masculine voice wasn't as deep as Barrington's, but it still held command. It made her turn toward the door.
A tall man with a wide grin stood at the doorway. The heart-shaped face, the walnut colored eyes. He seemed familiar. "I must go back and get my children," he said. "Just can't bear being in London without them any longer."
Amora tucked the babe deeper into her arms and stared at the intruder. She glanced to Mrs. Gretling. The woman looked charmed, her cheeks turning red.
He plodded inside. His top hat flopped as if it would fall any minute. A cinnamon waistcoat peeked from his dark blue coat and buff breeches. His smudged boots echoed along the floor.
She borrowed strength from her ancestors and drew Tomàs into a deeper, more protective clench. "Do I know you?"
When his hand landed lightly on her elbow, she jumped. "Mrs. Norton, there's nothing to be afraid of. I am Vicar Wilson, and I'm quite good with infants."
The voice. Had she heard it over her screams? Sounds and visions of her miscarriage flooded back into remembrance. The shine of the doctor's sharp knife against her forearm. The smell of iron and wetness. And some smooth hand holding hers, praying for her. The vicar?
She peered up and squinted at him. It was him. He looked better, less scary without fever tainting her vision.
"May I?" The vicar held out his palms. "My boy is just over a year."
There was a softness in his eyes. Something peaceful about the lift of his lips.
She placed Tomàs in the man's arms.
Vicar Wilson started to hum as he adjusted the babe. The tune had something to do with grace, whatever that was.
The little one looked comfortable as his bright blue eyes closed in sleep.
"See, I told you I do well with children. And on Sunday's at St. George's, I practice offering naps to the congregation."
Mrs. Gretling sauntered to him, took the babe, and laid him in the crib. "Mrs. Norton, the vicar is just teasin' about making the church sleep. Haven't put me to sleep yet, nor any of the ladies on Sunday."
A blush crept onto the man's lean features. "Mrs. Gretling, you've made me feel so welcome. I'm grateful. Tuesday's mutton was delicious."
Unveiling Love Page 5
