Saving Lady Ilsa

by Crystal Kauffman

  “Bradford’s father had broken his ankle in a riding accident and had the sternest nurse you ever did see. Confined to bed and an infirmary chair, wasn’t it, Bradford? Well one night Bradford sneaked into his room and helped him out of bed to watch a meteor shower through the telescope. They heard someone working the locked door and hurried the old man back to bed, afraid to catch a scolding from that nasty nurse. Bradford hid behind a curtain, certain the burly woman would merely check on his father and leave. Only it wasn’t the nurse who entered the room, it was an assailant dressed in a monster’s mask. He grabbed the earl’s shoulders and shook him ferociously, shouting and acting mad.”

  “Dear Lord!” Ilsa exclaimed. “To what purpose?”

  “Why, to scare him to death, of course.”

  She gasped.

  “That is what I believe,” Bradford interjected gently.

  “Anyhow, here comes Bradford bursting from the curtain, grabbing the first thing he saw to crack the attacker over the head—a flower vase.”

  Now Ilsa laughed with joy. “You didn’t!”

  “A great, heavy, bronze vase.” Bradford grinned. “Gave off a sound like an oriental bong.”

  “And knocked the attacker flat on his face. Perhaps a few of his teeth were cracked in the process.”

  “Not to mention his skull,” Bradford added.

  “My goodness!”

  “I was a gangly youth and that vase weighed nearly as much as I did. I ran to my father’s side and helped him off the bed, pulling the bell rope for all I was worth. The intruder managed to get to his hands and knees and crawl to the balcony, where he slithered away like a snake.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “As heroic as Frederick makes me sound, truth be told I was scared out of my wits and had I even thought to unmask him, I’m quite certain I would have been too terrified to try. But afterward, my father and I both agreed the intruder was my brother. There was a familiar curve to his shoulders, his undeniable pigeon-toed gait and we both saw his hands quite clearly.”

  Ilsa took a cooling drink of water. “Merciful heavens.”

  “Thank goodness my father had only been pretending sleep, or he would have been frightened to death.”

  “And what of the goose egg that surely crowned the skull of this assailant?”

  “Nolan concocted an excuse, of course. He was supposed to be in London at the time and claimed he fell from a horse. In fact, he returned home two days later with his arm in a sling and his face covered with bruises. Though to this day I believe he suffered not some purposeful riding accident, but the wrath of one of his creditors. Nolan has always had a problem with gambling.”

  “Like my charming brothers,” Frederick added wryly.

  By this time their plates were being cleared away for dessert. A sinful slice of chocolate cake was placed in front of Ilsa, and her wine replaced with champagne.

  When they were alone again, Bradford continued. “My father never so much as accused Nolan before the family, but after a private meeting in which very stern orders were heard behind the closed door, my brother vacated the house for the townhouse in London where he lives now. He is invited home for Christmases, weddings and funerals only. My father provides an allowance just generous enough to keep him obedient, but not enough to fuel his arrogance as it once did.”

  “And because of our intrepid hero’s quick thinking and selfless courage, not to mention his charming personality, he is rewarded with familial preference and all the spoils you see here.” Frederick opened his arms wide.

  Bradford waved him away and dug into his cake. “It was more rash impulsiveness than ‘quick thinking’. And my father has always been a fair man. I’m quite certain I’d have been given Stratton House regardless. Only I prefer to live this far from London.”

  Ilsa took a sip of her champagne. The bubbly drink frothed on her tongue, adding to the excitement prickling her skin. “The only part of that story I don’t believe was that you were ever gangly.” She smiled. “I, for one, think it’s an incredible story of remarkable bravery.”

  Bradford seemed surprised and returned her smile. She met his dashing blue eyes, seeing him in a new light she found quite pleasing. Quite pleasing indeed.

  Chapter Five

  For days he waited for the baby to lose its dark pink color and turn white like it was supposed to. He’d seen babies before, they were whiter than anything else. Katrin was as pale as a squid, and his family were all fair with light blue eyes.

  But that baby wasn’t going to turn pale, no matter what Roberta or that damned midwife said. The dark hair that had dried into a mat of rough little coils had fallen out in the week since its birth, but he knew it wouldn’t grow back blond like it should.

  He pricked his finger with a needle and shouted out a curse before he remembered Lady Milton in the parlor. He was irritable and tense, and it was Ilsa’s fault.

  He should have known Katrin couldn’t be trusted. Looking back now, he realized he’d been played the fool from the moment she came here with her lies about his mother’s cousin. She was already knapped by another man, a lowly servant probably, and so desperate for shelter she’d say—and do—anything. Ja, she’d warmed his bed quite eagerly enough and he’d enjoyed her smooth young body, but Ilsa was the one who should bear him a son. He’d paid for it, giving her the room all these years that he could rent out for a tidy sum and feeding the fat woman. She owed him.

  He needed to rid himself of his current problem. And he needed Ilsa back where she belonged, doing her share of the work, cooking his meals and warming his bed, making him the son he was meant to have.

  One problem at a time.

  * * * * *

  “Miss Ilsa, is you up there?”

  Ilsa was working on the fourth chair in the attic when Mary’s hesitant call carried up the stairs. She’d learned Mary was more frightened of the attic than Elsabeth, and not because of the spiders. She had a strong belief in spirits and worried the former occupants of Stratton House frequented the attic to be near their old belongings.

  Ilsa set her sanding block down and went to the door. “Yes, Mary. What is it?”

  “Mr. Stratton requests your presence in the study, miss.”

  “I’ll be down immediately.”

  She found Bradford seated behind his immense desk speaking to a bespectacled little man in a plain suit who leaned over the papers spread across the desk.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had a guest.” She smoothed her hands over her sooty apron, hoping she didn’t have grime under her fingernails.

  “Mr. Williams, meet Miss Bergstrom, my wife-to-be. Ilsa, Mr. Williams from Hawthorne’s, the office of my solicitor.”

  The chubby man beamed as he reached for her hand. “Miss Bergstrom, what a delight.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m afraid I’ve been engaged in rather unladylike activities.”

  “Ilsa has been trying to revive a set of dining chairs she found in my attic.” Bradford wore an approving smile.

  “Aha, worry not, dear lady. I’ll confess I find assertiveness in a person an admirable trait. My wife has a cook and a maid, but she insists on cooking and serving all my meals herself and I’m a happier man for it.” He patted his very round stomach.

  “At my request Mr. Williams has drawn up the pre-wedding arrangement we discussed.” Bradford’s smile turned sly.

  “Oh?”

  Mr. Williams picked up one of the papers. “This is the deed to the estate in Aberystwyth.” He handed it to her, then retrieved a second. “This document will return with me to my office. I’ll handle the transfer of your funds starting on the first of the month, next Saturday. Congratulations on your nuptials, by the way. It’s always an exciting time for a bride.”

  She glanced at Bradford, confused.

  “Now, where do you bank, Miss Bergstrom?”

  “Bank?”

  “Er, perhaps you should arrange for services at Hawthorne�
��s,” Bradford suggested.

  “A wonderful idea. That will prove most convenient. I can return in two days with the necessary documents, if that is acceptable.”

  “Ilsa?” Bradford asked.

  “Of course,” she stammered, still numb from the proclamation the cottage Bradford promised her was in fact an estate. She glanced at the document and her eye landed on the words “nine acres”.

  Havers appeared in the doorway. “Pardon me, Mr. Stratton. A visitor to see you.”

  “Yes, who is it?”

  “A Miss Green from Whitechapel.”

  The room began to spin. Roberta Green was the tailor’s primary fabrics provider and Ilsa’s one friend. But why would she come here? And why would she ask for Bradford? Dietrich had sent her. That could be the only reason.

  “Have her wait in the drawing room.” Bradford no longer smiled.

  “Well then, I’ll be on my way. Miss Bergstrom, if I may?” Mr. Williams held out his hand and she returned the document. He slipped it into a heavy envelope and tied the flap shut with its attached ribbon. “Keep this in a safe place,” he said, handing it back to her.

  “I will, thank you.”

  He closed his briefcase and donned his hat. “I’ll return in two days time with your documents. Miss Bergstrom, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Congratulations again on your nuptials.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Williams.”

  “Mr. Stratton, good day.”

  “Ilsa, I wish a word.”

  At Bradford’s stern command, she sat in the visitor’s chair.

  “No need to see me out,” Mr. Williams said. “I know the way.” Nevertheless Havers trailed him out. With both men departed, silence weighed heavy in her ears.

  “There can only be one reason Miss Green is here.” Bradford stood and walked to a safe in the wall behind a painting that was standing open on hinges like a door. “How much did you earn at Kilgard’s?”

  “Earn?”

  He turned and cocked his head.

  “I earned no salary.”

  Bradford frowned. “How were you compensated for your services?”

  “With room and meals. Why do you ask?”

  He turned back to the safe and muttered something unflattering under his breath. He returned to his desk with a stack of notes larger than she’d ever seen in her life. Counting out pound notes faster than she could keep up, he suddenly paused. “How would you rate the quality of that room and those meals?”

  His obvious anger simmered under a very thin barrier. Her nervousness mounted.

  “Compared to this, horrid.” She forced a smile. When he didn’t smile with her, she sighed. “My room was drafty and my bed linens made from fabric scraps. The meals were cooked by me, so the quality was whatever I could draw out of the ingredients. Upon Katrin’s arrival, I ate last of whatever was left.”

  Bradford growled low in his throat, flipped out a few more pound notes and returned the stack to the safe. He slammed its front shut, threw the tumbler once and closed the painting. He wrapped the notes in brown paper and dropped the wad into a messenger’s sack. “Come.”

  He rounded his desk. Ilsa stopped him with a hand on his arm, still clutching the envelope in the other. “Bradford, Roberta Green may be his messenger, but she is not his conspirator. She is my friend.”

  Only then did his shoulders relax. “Fear not, I won’t make an enemy out of her. But she must understand my sincerity, so that in turn Kilgard understands it as well.”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  Roberta was examining the piano when they discovered her in the drawing room, standing a few paces back from it as though afraid it were fragile. She revealed a brief smile upon seeing Ilsa, but that smile dimmed when she glanced at Bradford. She dipped. “G’day, sir.”

  “Roberta, it’s good to see you.” Ilsa crossed the room and gave the plump older woman a hug while Bradford headed to the convenience.

  “And you, in one piece, I’ll say,” Roberta whispered. “I been mighty worried.”

  “Whatever for?”

  She glanced past Ilsa to Bradford, who poured himself a brandy with his back to them.

  “After what happened to that poor little maid, Angelina, why, anyone who cared a whit about you would worry.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice even more. “Are you truly well?”

  Ilsa shuddered at the reminder of the young girl foolish enough to get into a nobleman’s carriage. It was that girl Ilsa had thought of when climbing into Bradford’s. Six days Angelina had been missing, tortured nearly to insanity by the old codger’s perverse acts.

  She squeezed Roberta’s hands. “I am well, I promise it.”

  Roberta looked over her dirty apron. “You look as though he’s keeping you busy with real work. Thank the heavenly stars above.”

  “Miss Green. You bring a message from Kilgard?”

  Roberta winced at the gruffness in Bradford’s words.

  She turned and curtsied again. Poor thing, Bradford had her shaking in her shoes.

  “Er, eh, Mr. Kilgard asks when Miss Ilsa’s coming home. Her work has fallen behind.”

  “Miss Bergstrom will not be returning to Kilgard’s. You may tell him I said so. He will know the reason why.”

  “Not returnin’?” She shot a look at Ilsa.

  “Not returning.” Bradford clipped the words. “I’ll ask you to deliver this satchel to Kilgard. In it is thirty pounds. I trust you can be relied upon?”

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  “The money is compensation for her services, as Kilgard will need to hire a new seamstress. Ilsa will remain here indefinitely.”

  Roberta’s head swiveled toward Bradford, then back again like some sort of stiff child’s toy. “Oy.”

  “This sum will cover the salary of a replacement for one year. After that, he shall make do on his own.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll tell him, sir.”

  “Has he any argument, he will deliver it himself. I will not see another messenger on his behalf.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll tell him, sir.”

  “I will send Havers to reclaim my clothing.”

  “Yes sir—”

  Bradford held up a hand, silencing her.

  “Miss Green, please accept the use of my coach to return safely to Whitechapel.”

  Her eyes ballooned. “Oh no, sir, I couldn’t.”

  “While you are traveling with large sums of my money, I prefer that you do.” He nodded a farewell. “Ilsa, I’ll leave you two to visit.”

  When he’d departed Roberta dropped her shoulders and used a hand to fan her face. “My, he’s a fierce one! Though I’d put up with his gruff to sit in a room this grand just for a single day, I would.” She glanced around, marveling at the impressive drawing room.

  Ilsa hoped she hadn’t looked as wide-eyed and open-mouthed on her first time here. She took Roberta’s hand and led her to a jacquard chaise. Roberta balked before allowing herself to sit upon the fine chair.

  “Are you telling me the truth, love? You’re truly safe here?” Roberta had always loved to gossip, and it seemed to Ilsa she wanted to discover something sinister here.

  “Truly. And I’m ever so touched by your concern. You’re my only friend, Roberta. We must find a way to keep in touch.”

  Roberta still shook her head, neck quivering like a turkey’s waddle. “I couldn’t live with myself if I left here and something terrible happened to you.”

  “Something terrible happened before, with Dietrich. Nothing could ever be as bad.” She glanced at their clasped hands, forcing away the chill crawling up her arms. “This job is proper and I’m treated well here. He’s an attic full of old furniture that I’m repairing.” Now she was grateful for her old work dress and sooty apron.

  “Well then if you say so, then that’s good enough for me.” She peered at the double doors Bradford had departed. “He’s a stern one, but right handsome. I wouldn’t mind if he used me for his dirty deeds.”


  Ilsa laughed. “Roberta! You’re a wicked one.”

  “I’m also a widow a decade gone by. I may be old, but I still got me needs.”

  “Perhaps I’ll ask if Mr. Stratton has a pair of knickers for you to repair.”

  Roberta blushed. “Now who’s the wicked one?”

  Ilsa’s humor faded quickly. “Tell me, is Dietrich angry? I hope he’s not being cruel to you.”

  “Ah! I almost forgot to tell ye. Katrin had her baby. Truly, Dietrich isn’t thinking about nothin’ else.”

  Ilsa experienced a flash of something she was ashamed to call jealousy. But Roberta was shaking her head again and her expression revealed the opposite of joy. “Oh, I’ll tell you, he’s not a happy man.”

  “Is it not a boy?”

  “It’s a boy.”

  “It’s healthy, I pray!”

  Roberta sat back and looked at her with intense seriousness meant to punctuate her words. “I tell you, I suspected as much, counting the months as I did.”

  Ilsa’s heart thundered. Had the baby been born too soon? All Dietrich had ever wanted was a son to carry his name. As much as she hated the man, she didn’t have it in her to want to see him denied, or any poor child to find misfortune.

  “It ain’t his.”

  “Oh no. Are you sure?”

  Roberta scowled. “When did little miss Katrin come to live with you?”

  Ilsa wanted to say February, but that wasn’t right. “Last March.”

  “And what month is it now?” One brow twitched up.

  “September. But—”

  “Come on girl, even one as daft as me can do that figurin’.” Roberta crossed her arms. “None of that matters, though. He can’t pass it off as his anyhow. It’s a quadroon.”

  * * * * *

  The squalling baby was driving him mad. There was more wrong with that little cockroach than its dark skin. It was unusually colicky, and he attributed it to Katrin’s declining health. She’d been sickly for months, but he’d blamed it on the pregnancy.

  Dietrich fought the urge to put his hands over his ears. Even downstairs, the screeching little voice rattled the windows and made the walls vibrate.

  A fine carriage stopped in front of the door and the rich gold crest sparked familiarity. It was that dandy who’d taken off with Ilsa. A surge of fury soured his gut. She better not have grown used to his luxuries, gallivanting about in his fine carriage. She was going to work twice as hard until her work was caught up…