by Cheryl Holt
She didn’t reply, and he paused, waiting—as if on tenterhooks—for her to thank him.
“I’ll be a member of the family now,” he practically boasted, “so if you ever need anything, promise me that you’ll—”
“Lord Redvers!” Victoria barked. “That’s enough!”
He lingered for an eternity, apparently hoping for a reaction from Mary, and when he didn’t receive it, he sighed and departed.
A frightening silence descended.
Mary stared at Victoria, and Victoria stared back.
“You are not to see him privately ever again,” Victoria said. “Swear to me that you will not.”
When Mary couldn’t respond, Victoria shouted, “Swear it to me!”
“I swear,” Mary muttered.
“Of all the things you might have attempted, I would never have predicted this. What have you to say for yourself?”
“I’m sorry. I never meant to disrespect you. I never meant to hurt anyone.”
“Really? What about Felicity? She is your sister, and he will be her husband. Yet you can sit there and tell me that you didn’t mean to hurt anyone?”
When the affair had started, it had seemed so wonderful. She’d never looked down the road to this horrid day, to the rough conclusion where she was ruined and completely dishonored.
“I hadn’t thought about Felicity.”
“No, you hadn’t.” Victoria snorted with disgust. “Viscount Redvers presumes that I will resolve this scandal by marrying you off, but I have no intention of doing that.”
The notion of Victoria picking her husband was nauseating.
“I wouldn’t want you to.”
“You can’t remain here, though. Especially if you might be increasing. I won’t have you flaunting his bastard child at Felicity.”
“Are you ordering me to leave Barnes Manor?”
“Yes. Redvers is like a rutting dog, so he won’t halt his pursuit of you. I can’t have him visiting over the Christmas holidays, only to catch him lifting your skirt again. If he hasn’t already impregnated you, he certainly could in the future. I won’t court disaster.”
“But . . . leave?”
“Yes.”
“This was my father’s home,” Mary indignantly reminded her.
“Yes, it was, and if he could see how you’ve disgraced yourself, he would be so ashamed.”
At the blunt insult, Mary blanched, but she was undeterred in her argument. “I belong here as much as Felicity or Cassandra. What right have you to throw me out?”
“I have the right, because as you mentioned this was your father’s home, but it is mine now. I decide what is permitted under my roof. I decide who resides with me and who doesn’t. You can’t strut about the neighborhood with your belly swelling out to here”—she gestured rudely with her hands—“and no wedding ring on your finger. Were you imagining there would be no consequences?”
Mary wanted to complain, wanted to fight or weep, but what was the point? Her conduct guaranteed that she couldn’t carry on as she had in the past, and Barnes Manor was Victoria’s property. As she had always made abundantly clear, Mary stayed because Victoria allowed her to stay.
“Where shall I go?” Mary asked. “What shall I do?”
“I shall give you twenty pounds and coach fare to London. It is sufficient to pay a few months’ accommodation at a boardinghouse. You’ll be safe and fed while you hunt for a job. It’s probably what I should have done years ago. There’s never been anything for you here.”
“But a boardinghouse!” Mary was sick with fury. “I am Charles Barnes’s oldest daughter.”
“Yes, and look where it’s gotten you. You’re lucky I’ve offered you twenty pounds. I could just kick you out on the lane to fend for yourself.”
Mary was about to retort when the door flung open and Felicity hurried in. Cassandra was behind her.
“Mother,” Felicity said, “we saw Lord Redvers storming up the stairs. He was extremely angry. What’s happened? I’m not a child, so don’t treat me like one. I demand to know what’s going on.”
Victoria stood, and she was very grim, as if she was a judge passing a death sentence. “Mary is leaving us today. She won’t ever be back.”
“What?” Cassandra gasped.
“Why?” Felicity queried. She swaggered over, approaching till she was directly in front of Mary. “It’s Redvers, isn’t it? She’s done something awful to my fiancé.”
“Yes,” Victoria admitted. “I won’t have you and Cassandra speculating or feeling sorry for her. Mary, rise to your feet and inform them of your treachery.”
In light of how Felicity would react, it was a very cruel command. And why should Felicity be apprised? It would only hurt her, would only wreck the beginning of her marriage to Lord Redvers.
“She doesn’t need to hear it,” Mary insisted.
“Yes, she does. She’s marrying him in the morning; she should have no illusions about him. Down the road, it will save her an enormous amount of heartache.”
Victoria paused, and when Mary didn’t leap up to proceed, Victoria bellowed, “Stand and tell her! At once!”
On shaky legs, Mary stumbled up, and she stared into her half sister’s blue eyes. Mary saw no kindness, no cordiality, no hint of warmth.
What on earth was Mary supposed to say? How was she to confess the truth?
“During Lord Redvers’s ... ah ... visit to Barnes Manor,” Mary stammered, “he and I have ... grown very close.”
Felicity frowned. “You’re talking in riddles.”
When Mary couldn’t explain, Victoria did it for her. “She and Redvers were having an affair. They’ve been doing physical things together that a man should only do with his wife, things that you will learn about on your wedding night.”
“Oh no,” Cassandra breathed.
Felicity’s response was more potent. Her cheeks mottled with rage.
“You were dallying with my betrothed?”
“Yes.”
“You deceitful, disloyal witch!”
Felicity slapped Mary as hard as she could. Mary hadn’t been expecting the blow, and she staggered, lurching to regain her balance lest she fall to the floor. Felicity loomed nearer, as if she would strike Mary again, but Cassandra jumped between them.
“Felicity!” Cassandra scolded. “Stop it! Redvers isn’t worth this sort of quarrel.”
“Get out of my way!” Felicity seethed.
“No.” Cassandra glanced over her shoulder at Mary. “Mary, are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m all right,” Mary said with quiet dignity. She pulled the red ribbon from her hair and discreetly dropped it.
Victoria nodded at Mary. “Head upstairs and pack your bag. You still have time to catch the afternoon coach in the village.”
“Where is she going?” Cassandra demanded to know.
“It doesn’t matter,” Victoria declared. “Her whereabouts are no longer any of our concern.”
Mary gazed at Victoria, remembering all the difficult years she’d endured, how lonely she’d been, how unloved and unappreciated. Yet, she’d persevered, had accepted her lot, had bravely and courteously tried to fit in.
And this was her reward?
“I never hated any of you,” she solemnly confided to the three women. “Despite how you always treated me, I never did.”
She marched out of the room.
“Mary . . .” Cassandra said, but Mary kept walking.
Chapter 19
MARY ran through the woods, feeling as if she’d gone mad.
She should have simply proceeded to her room, packed her bag, and left as Victoria had ordered, but she couldn’t obey her stepmother.
Victoria’s edict seemed too unreasonable.
Mary and Redvers had participated in the affair together, yet his conclusion was marriage to Felicity and the receipt of her fortune, while Mary’s conclusion was shame, eviction, and the loss of everything that was familiar.
W
here was the fairness in that?
Why should Redvers escape without so much as a raised brow, while Mary was branded a harlot and kicked out on the street?
She didn’t want to go to London and fend for herself. She’d never been to Town before. How was she to locate a place to live? Food to eat? A job?
With no skills or abilities, even if she’d had the vaguest notion of how to find employment, what was she qualified to attempt?
She needed help and advice, needed someone to take her side so she might obtain a better, more equitable resolution.
Harold was the only person she could think of who might assist her. He’d always complained about Victoria’s treatment of Mary. He understood Mary’s plight, and hopefully, he would be able to tell her what to do.
Bursting out of the trees, she hurried across the swathed grass to the bricked drive that led to the Talbots’ house.
There was a carriage parked out front, and as she neared it, the door of the residence opened.
Harold and Vicar Martin exited. Harold was dressed in his Sunday clothes, and as Mary watched, he slipped the minister a small pouch, which had to contain money.
What was occurring?
She stumbled to a halt as the minister patted Harold on the back.
“I never thought I’d see the day, Talbot,” the vicar said to Harold.
“Neither did I.”
“I’d given up on it ever happening.”
Harold puffed up, looking pompous and pleased. “I just had to meet the right woman.”
“And a fine choice you made. A very fine choice. Congratulations.”
He patted Harold’s back again, then climbed into the carriage.
As the vehicle moved off, Harold saw Mary, and he frowned.
“Mary, what are you doing here?”
“I had to speak with you. It’s very important. May I come inside?”
“It’s really not a good time.”
In all the years she’d visited him and Mother Talbot, she’d never been refused entrance.
His cheeks reddened, as if he was embarrassed.
“Why isn’t it a good time?” she asked. “What’s going on?”
“Well . . .”
His cousin, Gertrude, peeked out the door. She was dressed in her Sunday best, too, and she had her hair braided in an elaborate coif that had flowers weaved through it.
“Harry,” she fairly cooed, “Mother Talbot is ready to cut the cake.”
“I’ll be there in a minute, Gertie,” he said.
Gertrude scowled at Mary, then went in.
Mary studied his attire, remembered the minister and the pouch of coins.
“What have you done?” she inquired.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
“About?”
“Gertrude has been here for a few weeks, and she and Mother get on famously. You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t know how it is. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Gertrude and I . . . that is ... Mother and I were . . .”
Gertrude appeared again, and she marched toward them. In a proprietary gesture, she took Harold’s arm.
“We were just married.” She was smug, gloating.
“Married? ”
Mary’s furious gaze locked on Harold, but he was a coward and stared at the ground.
“Yes,” Gertrude replied. “While he and I have been forced into such close quarters, we learned how much we have in common. It was only natural that romance blossom. Mother Talbot noticed it before we did, and she suggested the match.”
“Couldn’t disappoint the old girl,” Harold muttered. “Keeps it all in the family, don’t you see?”
Mary had never had strong emotional feelings for Harold, but for so long, he’d been her sole hope of rescue, of change. His marriage, so fast—and behind Mary’s back—seemed an even bigger betrayal than the one Redvers had effected.
“I waited ten years, Harold,” Mary charged. “Ten years!”
“Yes, sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Mary gasped. “Is that all you have to say?”
“Actually,” Gertrude interjected, “we’re glad you stopped by.”
“Why would you be?”
“It saves me the trouble of calling on you. Harold told me about your peculiar infatuation with him. He’s tried to politely deflect your attentions, but to no avail, and I must insist that you leave him alone.”
“Leave him alone . . .” Mary repeated like a dullard.
“He’s mine now,” Gertrude boasted. “If I catch you sniffing after him again, I’ll have to confer with Mrs. Barnes about your behavior.”
Mary glared at Harold, daring him to look at her, but he wouldn’t.
“I desperately need help, Harold. I need a friend to advise me, and I came to you. Yet this is my answer?”
“Miss Bames!” Gertrude snapped. “Honestly! Control yourself!” She dragged Harold toward the house without letting him respond. Not that the little weasel would have. The door shut without his ever glancing back.
Mary dawdled in his yard, and she stared up at the sky, wishing the Good Lord would smite her and sweep her up to Heaven.
Her heart was broken, her dreams dashed. Why carry on? Why keep trying?
Did Lord Redvers understand the full extent of the catastrophe he’d brought down on her head? If he was apprised, would he be concerned?
She had to accept that he wouldn’t care.
He’d claimed that he didn’t care about anything, that he had no positive qualities. She’d refused to believe him, but his conduct had proven that he was the low, despicable reprobate everyone deemed him to be.
She couldn’t say he hadn’t warned her. He’d been very clear; blunt, even. From the beginning, he’d intended to form no attachment, and he hadn’t.
Why then, was she so shocked? So surprised? So hurt?
She started for Barnes Manor, and as she walked, a dispassionate coldness seeped through her.
She’d always been an optimist—despite how bad things appeared, there were better days on the horizon. That foolishness was over.
There was no point in hoping, in being loyal, or making an effort. There was no reward. There was no light at the end of the tunnel.
When Victoria had first explained that Mary was to be evicted, she hadn’t wanted to go, but why not? Barnes Manor had never really been her home. It had once belonged to her father, but she scarcely remembered him.
What reason was there to remain? Why pursue a connection with relatives who hated her?
If she couldn’t live at Barnes Manor, what did it matter where she resided? She could live in a ditch, in a hovel, in a London boardinghouse. It was all the same to her.
She felt dead inside, and as the mansion came into view, she’d ceased to worry over her plight.
Time was quickly passing, and she’d wasted too much of it. If she planned to catch the London coach in the village, she had to get moving.
She sneaked in a rear door and tiptoed up to her bedchamber. She peered around, knowing that she should have been sad or nostalgic or angry but she wasn’t.
The room seemed hazy and distant, as if it was a stranger’s, as if she’d never slept in it a single night.
She opened the wardrobe, hastily grabbing her few personal possessions. The only odd item was the second vial of Spinster’s Cure that Mr. Dubois had given her.
He’d urged her to try another dose, but she hadn’t. Nor had she thrown it away. It had humored her to have the tonic, to look at it occasionally and ponder its effect. She tossed the vial in her reticule, not wanting it, but not wanting to leave it behind where someone might find it and wonder what it was.
She had a battered portmanteau, and she packed it, buckled the strap, and strolled out.
At the landing, she nearly turned to slink out the servants’ entrance. But at the last moment, she decided not to. Head high, she marched to the main staircase.
She was Charles Barne
s’s oldest daughter. She would depart by the front door. If Victoria didn’t like it, so what?
Mary had stopped caring about Victoria’s opinion. Mary had stopped caring about anything.
As she reached the foyer, Cassandra was hurrying down the hall. She noted Mary’s bag, her cloak and bonnet, and she frowned.
While they’d been children, Cassandra had never been overly cordial but she hadn’t been horrid, either. When she’d come home after her failed marriage, she’d been affable and supportive. Mary considered her a friend, but Mary had no parting words for her and wouldn’t engage in a drawn-out farewell.
She was invisible, a ghost floating away unseen.
“Mary, there you are!” Cassandra rushed up. “I’ve been searching everywhere.”
“Have you?”
Mary kept going.
“Mary!”
Cassandra clasped her wrist, halting her.
“What?” Mary queried.
“You’re not actually leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t. With the wedding and all, it’s been very stressful. Wait until we’re all more calm. I’ll speak to Mother; I’ll get her to change her mind.”
“I don’t want her to change her mind. I don’t want to ever see her again.”
“I know she’s always been awful to you, and today was worse than ever, but this can’t be your choice. Where will you go?”
“I’m off to London on the afternoon coach.”
“To London! To do what?”
“I have no idea. I’ll figure it out once I’m there.”
“Oh, Mary . . .”
Cassandra studied her, her consternation great as she tried to devise an argument that would sway Mary, but there was nothing Cassandra could say.
Mary yanked away and went outside. Cassandra followed her. “Mary, is Lord Redvers aware of what’s occurring?”
“Yes.”
“But he can’t have thought this through. Mother said that he’d developed a tendre for you. Let me confer with him. He might be able to assist you.”
Mary whipped around. “Don’t ever talk to him about me. Don’t ever mention my name.”
For some inexplicable reason, Mary remembered the vial of Spinster’s Cure in her reticule. She pulled it out and gave it to Cassandra.
