How very gratifying he would find it to stand like some villain in a Cheltenham tragedy, driving her into the streets.
The thought alone made Norah's jaw tighten until it seemed the muscles must snap. She would never go back. Never afford Farnsworth that kind of satisfaction. She'd starve first.
No. That would give him pleasure too. Imagine his pompous delight, waving that thick finger of doom over her corpse, pontificating about the justice the fates exacted over an ungrateful child.
But if she wasn't returning to Farnsworth House, where else could she go? Richard couldn't help her. It was no secret his father had planted servants willing to spy upon his son, to assure that he be kept aware of his heir's behavior. Generous as Richard had been in providing her with a trousseau for this unorthodox marriage, there was no use entertaining grand delusions of rescue from that quarter.
Yet, was it possible that her mad dash to Ireland might have freed her to do as she'd wished in the beginning? Before Winston Farnsworth had made her feel the full reach of his power?
Could she find a position of employment for herself somehow, somewhere her stepfather would never find her? She might even be able to enlist Sir Aidan Kane's help in finding a situation.
Norah grimaced. There was more chance of Sir Aidan Kane coming to her chamber and falling down on one knee, begging her hand in marriage.
Norah grimaced as an apple-cheeked servant in a charming white cap came barreling out of a chamber, a bunch of linens clutched in plump white arms.
"Rose!" the footman called out. "You'd best drop whatever you be doin' and take yourself off to the Blue Room directly. The master wants it buffed up right smart now."
"Tell 'im it's plenty buffed up for them that stays there!" The pert Irish girl tossed Sipes a smile that must have broken a dozen hearts. "I much doubt a haunting ghost would have need o' clean bedding."
"Maybe not, but this lady will." Sipes set down Norah's trunk with a bang. "She be visiting at Rathcannon, and Sir Aidan ordered she be put in that very chamber."
"I don't believe it!" The maid gaped at Norah. "Has the master waxed mad?"
At that instant, a precise figure dressed in black swooped from another door, keys jangling at her waist. "Even if Sir Aidan has taken more leave of his senses than usual, it's not for you to be gossiping about, Rose. Follow his orders at once, or—heavenly days!"
The older woman slammed to a halt, pressing one hand to her breasts as she stared at Norah. "What in the world—"
"It's a lady come all the way from England." Sipes scurried over to the woman, relating the debacle in the carriage circle in hushed tones.
By the time he was finished, the woman looked quite pale, and Norah braced herself for another bout of recriminations for her foolishness. "Don't tell me that wicked girl dragged you all this way," the woman blustered, "and Sir Aidan, without so much as a notion you were to come here. What kind of female would do such a rash thing as to—"
"To come to Ireland to marry a stranger?" Norah's cheeks burned as she interrupted Mrs. Brindle's disjointed tirade. "I don't know. But I would say that she deserves whatever disaster befalls her, wouldn't you?"
She looked away from the older woman, hiding the sudden, sharp sting of tears.
The words seemed to take the woman aback. She drew closer, and Norah smelled a comforting scent of lavender swirling up from dark skirts.
"Now, now," the woman tsked. "Whatever brought you here, 'tis obvious you're a lady. And not a hard one either, with the soft look to your eyes. I'm Maude Brindle, Sir Aidan's housekeeper and, once upon a time, Miss Cassandra's nurse. Though if the child's been up to the kind of mischief Sipes is prattling about, I'm ashamed to own her."
Norah forced her lips into a tremulous smile. "This was all a terrible mistake, Mrs. Brindle."
"Anything where men are involved is like to be one, child," the housekeeper observed with a shake of her head. "I buried my husband nigh thirty years ago, and I can tell you right off that men are nothing but trouble, especially men the like of Sir Aidan."
"I can't argue with you about that. I intend to leave the moment I can arrange it."
The woman's face pursed up in a formidable scowl. "I'm certain if I bundled you into a coach this instant you couldn't be quit of the two of them soon enough! Of all the inexcusable mischief!" Outrage streaked across an ageless face. "Oh, and I shall take them to task for this, I promise you! You look tired to death, miss, and us not expecting you! Put the trunk in that room there, Calvy Sipes, and tell Noddie and Claire to bring up a bath for the lady. And cook can wet her up a bit of tea, and put some cakes on a plate. Poor thing looks like to fade clean away, she's so pale."
It seemed as if it had taken forever to traverse the maze of corridors and stairways of Rathcannon. But in a heartbeat, Mrs. Brindle had swept Norah into the mysterious Blue Room, enthroning her before a freshly started fire, with a hartshorn pillow at her back and a heartening cup of tea warming her hands.
The irrepressible Rose and three other lively maids rushed about, spreading exquisite sheets on the four-poster bed, dashing blue-velvet draperies back from windows that hadn't been opened in so many years that their frames were warped shut. But if they could have been thrown open, Norah doubted even the sweet-smelling Irish breezes could drive back the mustiness that thickened the air in the chamber, or the shadows that seemed to press themselves into the painted wallpaper and huddle in the corners. Shadows that seemed to lodge cold and dismal in Norah's own breast.
As a child, she'd been tormented by the oddest notion that at night her stepfather had torn away the floor outside Norah's room, so that if she set foot beyond that door to seek her mother she would plunge into a black abyss, filled with snarling monsters.
She'd told herself a hundred times to go, to open the door. Certain that if she raced very fast across the chasm, she'd be able to reach the other side and find her mother again.
Of course, she had never dared and had spent the solitary nights trembling beneath the coverlets, listening for the scritch-scratching of the monsters' claws and the soft, hungry growls of their stomachs.
Tonight she felt as if she had finally dared the chasm, outwitted the monsters, only to find herself at the edge of an even deeper chasm, populated with monsters far fiercer than the ones she had faced before. And there was no way she could turn back.
If only she had realized it before it was too late.
"Miss Linton." The sound of a voice at her shoulder made Norah start, shaken from her memories. The redoubtable Mrs. Brindle patted her hand. "I didn't mean to startle you, my dear, but I thought it best to warn you that Sir Aidan likes his dinner promptly at six."
The idea of descending those stairs again to confront Aidan Kane was more than Norah could endure. If there was a God, she would be able to creep away from Rathcannon without ever having to look on his face again.
"I don't think I could eat a bite. I'm very tired. I think I will just... just go to bed."
"And so you shall, lamb, if that is what you want. And if either of those two miscreants dares disturb you, they shall answer to Maude Brindle, they shall. Of course, if it's the master's temper you fear, well, you needn't. Got the fury of the Irish in him, true enough—but he blazes up in a right spectacular show and then it burns itself out."
The woman patted her hand. "If you'd like to have a comfortable chat later, Miss Norah, I'm a good listener. Lord knows, I've had enough practice with Miss Cassandra. She can out-chatter even her mama at that age...." Mrs. Brindle stopped, just a tinge of pink on her cheekbones. "But here now! I'm being as tiresome as can be. You say you need some rest, and I chatter the ears right off you, instead of tucking you up nice and cozy. Why don't you let me play maid to you, get you out of these things and—"
"That isn't necessary," Norah interrupted hastily. "I can manage on my own."
Shrewd blue eyes seemed to peel away Norah's protective layers of pride and stubbornness, probing to places that were raw. "From
the look of you, you've been managing on your own far too long already."
With that, Mrs. Brindle swept out of the room, shooing the other servants before her like a nettlesome brood hen. Norah heard the click of the latch, and with a sign of relief, she allowed her shoulders to sag.
"Oh God," she whispered, "how has everything gone so wrong?"
She let her lashes drift shut as the memories flooded through her, carrying her back to the London shore, a sky churning with storm clouds, a heart raw with dreams.
* * * * *
Sea spray. It stung her nose, bit color into her cheeks, while wild anticipation mingled with wariness in Norah's heart. Her fingers trembled as she clutched at her reticule, her dilapidated trunk beside her.
She was the only passenger waiting alone; the others, from the lowliest sailor to the most exalted grande dame, were lost in throngs of well-wishers, drowning in hugs, words of love and caution.
It wasn't as if Norah had expected anyone to see her off this morn. Her mother had been stricken with a bout of hysterics, her stepfather a study in grim satisfaction, sending her off to a future he hoped would prove to be a fitting punishment for the ungrateful child he'd been saddled with these many years.
Norah tried to tell herself it didn't matter that no one would care if she tumbled from the edge of the earth the way the ancient sailors had believed.
But as she stood with rain spattering her bedraggled cloak, her hands trembling as they straightened the brim of a much-abused bonnet, a wrenching sense of loneliness shivered through her, blending with the tiniest sliver of dread that this mad plunge into Ireland might be just another mistake, another disappointment, when she had already been battered by far too many.
She caught her lip between her teeth, wishing for just a moment that she had someone else to lean on. But showers of embraces, tender farewells were not for Norah Linton. She should have learned that long ago.
"Norah?"
The sound of her name made her jump, and she spun around to see the slender figure of a man limping toward her from a sleek black coach. He was hatless, and his golden hair clung damply about his cheeks. His greatcoat was all but hidden by a mountain of parcels caught in his arms. He was the most welcome sight Norah had ever seen.
"Richard!" Norah called out to her stepbrother, tears of gratitude and alarm nipping at her eyelids. "You shouldn't have come!"
"You think I would send my baby sister off to the wilds of Ireland without saying goodbye?" Richard asked breathlessly, ducking beneath the shelter of the eaves.
"But your father... If he ever found out that you had dared—"
"Defy him?" Even in the flickering light of the lantern suspended from an iron hook in the eaves, Norah could see her stepbrother's handsome features darken. "Devil take the coldhearted bastard! Would God I could fling his ultimatums back in his face and call him what he is—a villain, an arrogant tyrant who dared condemn you to this."
"He didn't condemn me to anything. I chose this fate. Willingly. Thanks to your kindness."
"Chose marriage? To some stranger in that godforsaken wastela—" He broke off, his jaw knotting as he dumped his bundle of parcels atop her trunk. "I curse my own weakness, that I could not come up with a better way to aid you. When I think of my father's cruelty, I could—"
"No, Richard. You mustn't anger him any further. You've already risked far too much on my account. No matter what awaits me in Ireland, I will be far happier than I would have been here in England."
"I don't doubt that! What Father did was abominable! Trying to marry you off to a pimple-faced cub, seven years your junior! I swear I could have called the sop-nosed brat out myself, the way he attempted to paw you at Filderland's soiree!"
"But you didn't call him out, Richard. You did something so much more helpful. You helped to find me a way to escape forever. Escape your father and Purcival Witherspoon."
"By offering you up to some Irishman like a virgin sacrifice? Sometimes I curse myself for even bringing that infernal letter to you. It's possible this man will be as bad as either of them." Richard raked impeccably gloved fingers through his hair. "It's possible he'll be worse."
Norah tried to muster a smile. "And it's possible that he will be everything I've ever dreamed of. Perhaps you are sending me into the arms of my own true love."
Richard looked at her as if he wished very much it were so. "I just don't want you hurt anymore, Norah."
Her heart squeezed at his concern, astonished by the man who had of late been peeking past her brother's spoiled facade. Richard, as shallow as a child's footprint filled with new rain. Whoever would have dreamed that he could shine so brightly? Her deepest regret was that this closeness between them had come so late, when she was leaving.
She reached out impulsively, taking her stepbrother's hand. "It will be all right. I'm not a foolish chit with her head stuffed full of happily ever afters," Norah lied. "The reality of my marriage will probably be like all others— somewhere between perfect bliss and Armageddon. Contentment is all anyone can truly hope for." Norah turned her face away from the light, trying to hide from her stepbrother's eyes her hopes for her future. Her gaze alighted on the parcels mounded on her trunk.
"What on earth are these?" she queried, overjoyed to have something to focus his attention on other than her upcoming marriage.
Richard started, as if he'd forgotten, then he beamed at her. "I thought that a bride should have a trousseau."
Hot tears spilled from Norah's eyes, hot and fast and unexpected. "A—a trousseau?" she echoed, disbelieving.
"I know that Father said he'd not buy you so much as a handkerchief if you went through with this mad plan. And the clothing you have—well...," He squirmed, a little uncomfortable. "I have eyes. I've seen how drab and threadbare your things have grown. I just thought that if you insist on running off to marry your Irishman, you should dazzle him. The first time he sets eyes on you, you should steal his breath away."
"Oh, Richard, as if I ever could! I've never been a beauty, but..." How had he known the secret tears she had shed over her trunk, when there was no one to see? How had he discovered how disheartened she had been as she attempted to mend frayed seams and replace faded ribbons?
Guilt made her cheeks burn as she remembered how often she'd thought Richard was spoiled and self-absorbed, unable to see the misery of others because he was too engrossed in indulging his own pleasures. No, she'd not waste time in regret, only accept this new Richard with an open heart.
Delighted with his surprise, Richard scooped the largest package from the bottom of the stack, only Norah's quick movements keeping the other parcels from tumbling to the wooden platform below.
"The first thing we hurl into the rag basket is that—that thing you're wearing." He gave her mantle a scornful tug, discarding it. Then, before she could protest, he ripped open the paper wrapping as enthusiastically as a child at Christmas.
The lantern light spilled across a pelisse of Prussian blue trimmed in swansdown, the combination impossibly beautiful, like mountain snow pillowed in the center of a sun-kissed summer sea.
Norah couldn't speak as her fingers stole out to touch the garment, make certain it was real.
But Richard was already sweeping it about her shoulders. She stood like a moon-struck child as he fastened the exquisite pelisse about her. "There is a bonnet too," he said, retrieving a confection of blush-colored lace and myrtleblossoms from another box. He settled it on Norah's curls, his brow furrowing in concentration as he tied the bow beneath her chin.
"Richard, how can I ever thank you?" Norah ran trembling fingers across the cloud-soft down.
He flashed her his most dazzling smile. "Virtue is supposed to be its own reward, is it not? Just go off and bewitch your Irishman, Norah. Your marriage... and happiness will be reward enough for me."
At that moment, Richard's coachman and postilion staggered over, hauling a shining new trunk twice the size of Norah's battered old one.
&
nbsp; Norah gasped. "More? Oh, Richard—"
"Mr. Piggle, you may take Miss Linton's old trunk and dispose of its contents as you will."
Norah raised a hand to her throat, dismayed. "No! I, oh, I don't think—I mean, it's not that I'm not grateful—"
"I'll brook no argument on this point, sister mine. I know how your devious feminine mind works far too well. You'd want to save the new things—keep them pristine, for God knows what reason, and wind up 'making do' with your old ones. I want you to wear the pretties I bought you. Enjoy them."
"But I—" She started to protest again, but he looked like a small boy she'd deprived of a sweet. She surrendered with a laugh. What else could she do? Especially when he was right? "Abominable boy!" she said. "At least let me take out my treasure box."
She opened the trunk and removed a hatbox in which she'd tucked her few treasures: one stray earring of a set that had belonged to her great-grandmother and the doll her father had given her the Christmas before he'd died—a doll garbed in refurbished finery to delight a new little girl, the child who would be Norah's daughter.
There had been few physical demonstrations of affection in Winston Farnsworth's house, but Norah flung her arms around her stepbrother nonetheless. Her voice caught on a sob. "I shall miss you so much. I cannot believe I'm losing you now, when we've finally grown close."
"It's dashed unfair, I know. But it's not as if we'll never see each other again," he said, awkwardly patting her on the back. "Why, I'm certain you'll come to London from time to time. And I shall see to my brotherly duty and make certain that all is well with you. In fact, I have already arranged for a friend of mine to stop by your castle to make certain this Irishman realizes what a treasure I've entrusted to him."
Norah felt blood rush to her cheeks, and she pulled away from him, beseeching her brother. "No! It's not necessary." But her dismay only increased as Richard laid his gloved fingertips against her mouth.
Cates, Kimberly Page 4
