“Have you not missed this, Henry? Come. Let us put aside our quarrels, for you and I have a great deal in common.”
Physically repulsed by his wife’s debauched behaviour, Lord Henry made no effort to conceal his contempt. His reproach was harsh.
“Madam. I suggest you leave my bedchamber immediately. You have the appearance of a worn-out harlot.”
#
Lady Emily’s illness caught everyone by surprise. Her ailment had descended upon her with such rapidity that the doctors had been led to believe that a foreign affliction may be at work. Home less than a month, Lady Emily’s condition had deteriorated. Her rate of decline prompted her physician to fear the worst. The final diagnosis however, revealed a common cause of sickness in a married woman.
“My Lord,” crowed the physician, “I consider myself privileged to attend the delivery of an heir to the great house of Marlbrook. The task is one that warrants the utmost care and diligence.”
Lord Henry had been seated in comfort in his study when the news arrived. His solitary confinement was thankful, given the circumstances. Good breeding showed and Lord Henry conducted himself with suitable correctness throughout the entire audience, although the glint in the physician’s eye, at the prospect of money, had Lord Henry struggling to keep his temper at bay.
Disgrace was never an option for Lord Henry. He would not allow gossip a free reign. Accordingly, he flattered himself for his credible performance as an expectant father.
Lady Emily was livid. She directed blame squarely at her doctor’s stupidity. He was an idiot of the highest quality. She had thought to buy his silence but had miscalculated his greed. The fool was insufferable. Her husband, for all his righteousness, was a man and he would have eventually bedded her, after which she would have conveniently produced a premature baby. His pathetic family were desperate for heirs and she was going to give them one, whether he liked it or not - that is, if the child was white.
Lady Emily’s predicament failed to curb her temper, the staff suffering the full brunt of her wretched nature. Her husband was rarely seen in her company.
Over time, Lord Henry came to a decision as to what to do with his errant wife. The solution had been uncommonly easy. Arrangements were made and he would not be swayed from his disposal of her. He had wasted enough effort on the woman. All that remained was for him to inform Emily of her fate and that disclosure he took upon himself to personally announce.
“I know you to be a whore, madam,” he stated factually, his speech uncontaminated by bitterness or hatred. “Let us be quite clear in this matter. If the mother is a harlot, then the child is an illegitimate bastard that shall never be given shelter in my home. On this, madam, you have my solemn oath that things shall be as I say.”
Emily was not impressed by Henry’s boorish stance. From him she had expected no less. A syrupy grin dribbled about her lips as she retaliated, the smile in direct contrast to the foul phrases that seeped from her mouth.
“My dear husband, you act as though you are an innocent. Can it be that you are forgetting your own sins? What say you to the bastard that I must put up with, a child, may I remind you, that you are not just content to raise in duty but one that you insist on parading for everyone to see? And while we are about naming strumpets, surely yours must be hauled into the fray. Trollops, it seems, husband, are a breed that you prefer. Is that not so, my poor, beloved Henry?”
Emily’s laughter had an insane ring about it, but the fact that his wife might be bordering on madness did not distract Henry from his course.
Emily had taken on an unhealthy appearance. Her looks reminded Henry of the creatures who, in their pursuit of pleasure, ravage their bodies, leaving behind the marks of debauchery that are not easily erased. Large dashes of rouge, applied by an overzealous hand, highlighted the pallor of her yellow tinged skin. If loathing had not claimed him, he might have felt sorry for her. Youth and beauty, which were once acclaimed, had gone, and Emily had yet to attain twenty-four years of age.
Lord Henry chose words as his weapon, hurting and belittling his wife to satisfy his appetite for revenge.
“Your threats are useless, Emily, as those around me accept my failings. You, on the other hand, are a woman. And need I remind you, one that is entirely dependent upon her husband’s goodwill. You would do well to remember that, as does any wife who fails to please her husband. If I should so order it, I can have you disgraced publicly. I can divorce you and deny you any form of defence.” Lord Henry began to enjoy himself. “But tell me, I am unsure if you understand your predicament or remain under some grave misconception that you will continue to be welcomed in this house?”
Emily hated Henry with a vengeance. Her husband would pay dearly for his mistreatment of her and for flaunting his mistress and his bastard in her home. But she had to exercise patience; there was still work to be done.
“What is it, then, that you command of me, husband?” The word “husband” she spoke with utter disdain.
“This topic has taken more of my attention than I care to donate. The preparations are complete. You shall leave here in the morning to attend a retreat. Your health is in a fragile state, one that demands attention; after all, the doctor is the authority on the subject. And of course, being a loving husband, I am duty bound to ensure that all care is taken, especially when a Marlbrook heir is at stake. It would be expected.”
Lord Henry relished his governing role. His wife’s discomfort was evident and real. “You shall remain confined until the birth. By then, I will have decided what ruin awaits you. While in seclusion, you would do well to think about what life has to offer a married woman with an illegitimate child.”
Lord Henry moved on to more practical matters. “Your parents are your territory, madam, I have no care as to whether you inform them or not. Their welfare or concerns are no longer my business. However, I would caution you about hurrying to their side with tales of fantasy. If the truth be known, I doubt their reaction will differ a great deal from mine.”
Without honouring or acknowledging Emily’s presence, Lord Henry strode from the room. He could honestly stand in any courtroom and swear on the bible that he had absolutely no further interest in anything his wife had to say or do.
During the term of her exile, Lady Emily wrote often to Lord Henry. Her abusive correspondence was repetitive in its demands for an audience. Naturally, she had been ignored.
As the weeks progressed, Lady Emily’s hysteria had become more discernible, her writings revealed her true state of mind. Her parents, among others, where not privy to her real predicament. She would not be welcomed in their home, when denied the right by her husband.
Lord Henry had given clear instructions. All communications from his wife were handed directly to him. He would not chance any third party becoming involved.
#
The delivery boy shuffled uncomfortably before Lord Henry. The lad was dirty and appeared troubled by the fact that he was in the presence of a Lord. The messenger had ridden through the night, at speed, to present this latest news.
Duty ruled Lord Henry, as it had done all his life, and tonight he viewed his obligations as no different to any other. The truth did not go on show. Emily’s condition deteriorated daily and her mental instability gave the physicians’ grounds for additional concern. The birth would be difficult - penance, Lord Henry supposed, for her sins.
Lord Henry had managed to contain the truth of the affair from his mother. Emily had neglected the one person who might have given her sanctuary. Her error was costly and her failure would be a fatal one.
In the early hours of the morning, drawn from his bed, Lord Henry read the doctor’s hastily scrawled words. The offer of consolation was meaningless, but no one could call him inhumane. He gave recognition to the loss of a mother and her child, tragic whatever the circumstances.
Lord Henry saw to it that Lady Emily’s demise was carefully documented, condoning a departure from accuracy. Condemna
tion would not mar the history books, and their roles in this farce would not be held up for censure. Chronicled in the annals of Marlbrook, Lady Emily’s death, due to haemorrhaging, was noted as a sad and unavoidable event. Marlbrook historians would also record the birth of Frederick Marlbrook, son of Lord Henry Marlbrook; he could see no harm come from that.
The burial of his wife and child had been a very private affair, conducted as the snows of winter howled around the ancient chapel doors. The heartbroken husband had been unable to attend.
#
Lord Thomas Ashley sat alone in his study, recalling the day that Henry had stepped into Laura’s life. The man had sparked jealousy from the first, and today was no different. Thomas’ wounds were fresh and raw. Lord Henry Marlbrook had married Miss Laura Jennings in the company of family and a few well-chosen friends. The report stated that the wedding had been a quiet affair. Lord and Lady Ashley had not been required to display their pain in public - that would have been asking too much.
Thomas had always believed that Henry would eventually tire of Laura and that one day she would be free. Anger surged. In his mind, he had always been Laura’s husband, not Henry, and now he would have to either come to terms with the situation or walk away. He doubted his ability to complete the latter.
Thomas bore his agony in solitude. Maureen had not been granted any insight into his troubles and she continued to hide her pain.
#
Laura completed her journal entry with a questioning heart. Clutching the precious book to her breast, she rocked in a slow, soothing motion. Her thoughts portrayed in her writing were disturbing.
“The act to which I confess is one that was made out of compulsion. Cowardice takes many shapes and dons many faces.
The decisions made today are still not my own, but perhaps this is just the facade behind which I choose to hide. The inconceivable has happened. I have married the father of my child. My future was decreed because his wife died. The child, a boy, did not survive, which was thankful in some pitiable way. The father was an unknown lover.
Fate is far stranger than first evident.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT – Revenge
Rows of black dotted the narrow pews of the family chapel. Lady Catherine, Laura acknowledged, would have liked the pomp and ceremony that commemorated her existence. Commoners and dignitaries alike joined to bid farewell to a woman celebrated for achieving a long and prosperous life. Lady Catherine had donated a great portion of her eighty-four years to the welfare of Marlbrook - an austere and thankless master.
Laura sat alongside her husband and their three children, united in mourning the woman who had accepted Laura into her home. Lady Catherine had granted her grandchildren a haven from what might otherwise have been a hostile world. Her Ladyship’s guardian years had ended.
#
Lord Thomas Ashley sat by the fire with his glass in hand, gazing into the flames as if seeking answers there. He was growing old. At forty-nine years, his age dictated his lifestyle. His children were no longer the boisterous babies with whom he had romped but were now a young man and lady.
“Sir. Father!” The raucous cries emitted by his son, drew Thomas from his reflections.
“Be still, lad, for you shall do yourself an injury if you carry on with that noise.”
“Father. Mary says that for her twelfth birthday she is to get her own carriage, but I say she is telling fibs.”
At once, an ear-piecing scream brought the boy’s accusations to an abrupt halt. Mary’s aim was precise and her target never stood a chance.
Thomas stooped to gather the book that only seconds earlier had been launched from her petite hands.
“Here, here you two,” Thomas voiced, while parting the pair. His stern words were tempered by the smile that he had been unable to fully conceal. “Mary is not telling fibs; however, it is not exactly a carriage that she will receive, more a buggy. Besides, her birthday is nearly a year away. Mary, you shall apologise to your brother or receive nothing, my dear girl!”
Harry neared manhood and stood tall at fourteen years. He was a tough lad but life would hold some knocks if he did not heed the meaning of restraint. His sister was his junior by eighteen months. She had secured a pleasing combination of heritage, but she too had an over abundance of spirit and, like her brother, required a firm hand on occasion. Thomas grinned, as the mental image formed of the poor husband who might claim her one day.
The quiet again descended, as the children made for the upper stories. Their chatter echoed in the halls before gradually dying away, leaving Thomas to the flames and their subtle disquiet.
Thomas stared at the fiery swords. The flames crackled and spat at him as if aware of his thoughts. Maureen became more of a recluse with each passing year. A casualty, she had been ignored from the first. Thomas could not apportion any criticism in her direction. Instead, her silent retreat forced him to accept his part in bringing about her demise.
#
At Marlbrook, Lord Henry practiced the daily ceremony of accepting a kiss from his children before they disappeared above stairs and into bed. He had, on many occasions, silently imparted his condolences to the poor woman employed to put up with their incessant quest for answers. Had it not been at Laura’s insistence, he doubted he would have maintained daily contact with his children. Still, despite his protests, he could boast to be a man proud of his family.
“Good night, father,” Hope said, as she gently kissed the clean shaven cheek presented to her.
Hope was reserved and undemonstrative around her father, but her demeanour changed when in the company of her mother.
Equal in height to Laura, Hope could envelop her mother with ease; her long slender arms were all-embracing. The freedom of their affections was depicted in the relationship between the two.
Hope had shown no signs of her birth mother’s fickleness. On the surface, the girl appeared aloof, but in private she owned a lively personality and a quick mind. She was the very duplicate of Laura, operating from a face similar to her father’s.
Bernard, their first-born son, had also inherited Laura’s green eyes. A sturdy boy, he displayed a natural enthusiasm for life, one that suggested that unless curbed, would lead him a merry dance. Their younger son, Michael, was the exact replica of his father in temperament and had looks akin to that of his paternal grandmother.
Michael was Lord Henry’s concern, but with Laura as his mother, Lord Henry prayed that she would keep him free of any inherent Marlbrook traits.
Lord Henry had settled into his advancing years, content with his life. While he could not admit to being perfect, he had long since curbed his trips to the city that had seen some of his errant ways revived. The satisfaction of returning to his wife and her bed still served him well. Nowadays, it was only on very rare occasions that he bothered to sample goods elsewhere.
Laura re-entered the morning room and positioned herself behind her husband. The daily routine of reading the newspaper had become an endearing idiosyncrasy that Lord Henry had taken on with age.
Laura observed him as he turned the page. The simple action vaulted the black, thickly set headline into focus, and the words that met them altered their lives.
Lord Henry read the article out loud in an attempt to comprehend its significance.
“Mrs Sarah Pritchard, nee Townsend, wife of prominent businessman, Mr Eric Pritchard, today announced their plans to return to Mrs Pritchard’s native England for a short stay. We join in wishing Mr and Mrs Pritchard a safe journey.”
A knot formed in Laura’s stomach and her thoughts instantly focused on the young woman who slept above stairs. Hope was fifteen years of age, a girl raised in a world unaware of hardship and protected from the harsh side of life.
The newspaper item made no mention of children, so Laura assumed that there were none. She looked to her husband and saw that his thoughts mirrored her concern.
“Laura, there is nothing your sister can do to take Hope from
us, either legally or morally. Her abandonment of the child would be condemned as the act of a wanton woman. No court will condone her desertion. And let us not forget that I am a Lord of the Realm, and it would be her word against mine.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE – Sarah’s Story
Sarah scanned the wharf from the deck of the ship, the distance of sea acting as her safety net. Sarah had no concept of what she searched for and put her inquisitiveness down to old habits. Other than the weather being miserable, the date could just have easily been fifteen years previous.
Sarah held her bright pink parasol, with its expensive white trimming, daintily in one hand, while men swarmed around her. A pretty face is always deceptive when viewed from afar.
Her husband, Eric, was a good man. His money had more than compensated for his American ways and he had never pressured her for children. Lady Emily had let the child’s name be known. Hope. Not bad, she thought.
The ship had docked fifteen years ago in America, a far cry from the stifled, class-ridden system of England - a country where money alone counted. Thankfully, Lady Emily had endowed her with sufficient amounts of the lovely substance to give her a decent start. There had been more than one occasion where she had given thanks to the lady’s generosity.
At first, New Orleans had proved daunting. The city was lively and colourful. The heat had been the main culprit for making people act a bit crazy. Their lives were dictated by the humid assault. Slaves were another issue that she had been obliged to confront. However, the practice was sanctioned in law and what people did with their money was no concern of hers.
She had sampled lovers from a range of cultures and remained undecided as to which origin she preferred. Although there had been one gentleman she remembered vividly, an aristocrat of Spanish origin with a darkness of skin that had fascinated her, his stamina had never been rivalled. Everything had been exotic from the food to the men. Gradually, she had become intoxicated by the uniqueness of the place - almost addicted to the life.
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