by Amy Quinton
She turned to look at him. His face was frozen in terror. And it felt like he was moving further away rather than racing towards her. How was that possible?
He yelled her name. She could see it was so as he reached for her. She saw his lips form the words. But his voice sounded muffled and distant.
It was the last thing she remembered before she fell to the floor.
Chapter 44
“Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love.”
―George Eliot
Bloomfield Park…
Day Two of a Different Sort of Torture…
He was altered, forever changed. He had known nothing before that moment…nothing of true pain; true horror…until Bea had fallen to the floor, her life’s blood blooming across the breadth of her shirt…every expanded inch of the ever-widening circle of red another dagger to his heart.
And since that unforgettable moment, he was living a nightmare. One that felt as if it might never end.
It had to end.
Cliff leaned back in his chair beside the bed and dragged his hand through his hair and down his face as he took in a deep breath; as he’d done a thousand times in as many minutes. His action momentarily dried the tears that seemed destined to fall from his eyes for an eternity, a slow and steady stream of remorse and fear…and love…in liquid form.
Bea’d been shot in the shoulder. She’d live. Of course she would.
She must, dammit!
His head knew that; his heart feared it all a wicked lie…fate laughing over his shoulder, punishing him for every misdeed or spiteful thought aimed in Bea’s direction.
Why, oh why had he even considered putting her at risk like that? How could he not have realized the danger? Hadn’t he been through this sort of thing before?
Sure. Of course. But not like this.
Yes, he’d spent many hours atoning for his sins…for the lives of the people he’d placed in harm’s way. Many hard hours that would never come close to making up for the heartache and pain caused by his actions in service to the Crown.
Yes, it was a risk they all knew in advance. And accepted. However, that knowledge never made it easier to face the aftermath when things went awry. And things eventually did go wrong. When it did, it threatened his very sanity every single time and was the reason he normally had such control over his emotions. The alternative was chaos. Bedlam.
Usually.
But this was different.
He hadn’t loved the others like he loved her.
Yes. The realization made his heart sing. He loved her! Lady Beatryce—who would have ever thought it? Oh, God, did he ever lover her! She kept him grounded, strong. She wasn’t afraid to tell him when he was acting the fool or just plain wrong. She was practical and fearless and reasonably selfless despite all outward appearances to the contrary. She was willing to give up money, servants, prestige—everything—all for the safety of her sisters, who would never know the truth. The very definition of honorable—doing for others without any desire or hope for acknowledgement or returned favor. Many would do better to be half so decent.
She stood up to him. She wasn’t afraid to disagree…Hell, she completed him. In every single way.
Every breath he took was for her. Without her…
He swallowed, though it was difficult to do so given the boulder-sized lump in his throat. No. He couldn’t travel that path.
She would live, dammit!
He pulled at his hair, again, in frustration and misery. Then reached for her hand and leaned forward in his chair beside her bed. Placing his head on the back of her hand where he lay it on the bed near him, he prayed. And he never let go. He hated to break their connection, even for a moment.
Her hand was burning hot.
He looked up, though, when he heard a soft moan…His eyes automatically sought out her face. She was too wan. Too thin.
She started to twist and turn in her sick bed…again; the fever had yet to abate. He jumped into action though panic all but threatened to immobilize him. He forced his limbs to move across the room to the table that held a basin of water and squares of soft linen.
“I need more water,” he yelled as he dipped the downy cloths into what little he had remaining.
He took the bowl with him and climbed on the bed next to her to bathe her, trying desperately to cool her overheated body.
He crooned soft words and sung sweet endearments while he wrestled to keep her alive. He fought with a desperation he’d never known.
“Bea, sweet, you must come back to me. I cannot…” He swallowed hard. “Love…I see you now. I see you; the real you you’ve kept hidden from the world. The real you who would sacrifice her life for her sisters even knowing they’d never realize it. The real you who would leave behind a life of ease to keep them safe even knowing they’d think you’d abandoned them. The real you who would do whatever it took to survive, even distasteful things that would cower a lesser man.”
Desperation threatened to seize control; his voice became threadbare and worn. “Bea…I need you to…well, dammit, who else am I going to tickle at night? Who else am I going to admire in snug breeches? Who else am I going to tease? What other woman could ever be as strong? Could ever compare? You were made for me…just me. You are wonderful…”
He froze. Had she made a sound? He looked up and saw her eyes were open. She was still fevered, her eyes too bright. But she smiled when their eyes met and it was the most beautiful sight in the world.
His heart felt as if it expanded in his chest to double its size.
He leaned in close. “What is it, dove? What are you trying to say?”
Her voice was barely a whisper. “I won’t die, you blockhead.”
Despite his fears, he smiled—a wide grin pulled from the very depths of his soul. Yes. That was her, his Bea. Confident despite the seriousness of her condition.
His tears renewed their outward flow.
She spoke again. “It’s about time you saw me, you fool.”
He laughed. Yea, she’d live. Like him, she was too stubborn to leave this world too soon.
Chapter 45
“I loved you madly; in the distasteful work of the day, in the wakeful misery of the night, girded by sordid realities, or wandering through Paradises and Hells of visions into which I rushed, carrying your image in my arms, I loved you madly.”
―Charles Dickens, The Mystery of Edwin Drood
Bloomfield Park…
Beatryce’s Room…
One Week Later…
“Now that I know you will live, I could kill you for what you did.”
Beatryce merely laughed. She was pretty much out of harm’s way; her strength nearly returned. She was strong, his love. A fighter.
But her laugh didn’t hold a trace of humor. She was testy. Probably due to an entire week of inactivity.
Well, that was fine. Cliff was mad, too.
She crossed her arms and glared at him.
He glared back. He was taller. And bigger. And thirty going on two.
“I did what I had to do. I won’t apologize for it, either. If you’re expecting one, then you don’t know me half as well as you think you do.” She countered.
“No, I know you’re not going to be reasonable and say you’re sorry for endangering yourself and driving me half mad with worry. But I wish you would consider for one single moment what kind of hell you just put me through. You could have died!”
“What of it? At least that madman wouldn’t have been around to hurt anyone else. Do you think I was the only woman he’d hurt? I doubt it.”
That stopped him. Hell, he hadn’t even considered that. He felt a moment’s pity for the other women who’d had to endure his brother’s depravity. The horror they must’ve endured. He resolved to find them any way he could and make amends.
But for now…
Beatryce turned and faced away, a moment of sadness seemed to envelop her.
“Bea?” He reached
for her and pulled her in his arms. “What is it? What is the matter?”
She snuggled closer and squeezed him. “I’m just feeling a slight…” She looked at him and smiled “…slight, mind you, pang of…worry about my future. It’ll be vastly different now, though I know I’ll manage…It’s just become real to me now.” Her voice trailed away as if she was momentarily lost in her thoughts of the future. He had an answer for that, too.
But he let her continue; clearly she had more to say. “For a moment there, I simply didn’t know how I was going to carry on. It’s so hard.”
“You could marry me?”
“What?”
“I said…”
“I heard you. I just cannot believe those words even came out of your mouth in reference to me. You do realize I’m not some broken, stray dog for you to fix?”
“Aren’t you?”
She almost laughed. Almost. She shook her head, no, instead.
“How can you love me when I’m so bad?” She said instead.
“Damned if I know…” She looked at him, surprised. She started to sputter out a response…
“Bu…But…I…”
He laughed.
“I admit you have been…bad. But, I think, if I’m not mistaken, that you have some sense of remorse…” She looked at him with some doubt. “…a small hint of remorse…” She yet held on to that reservation. “…a wee, tiny, barely noticeable minute morsel of doubt…” She laughed; he with her. “Does it excuse your behavior? Not always; not entirely. But then who in this world is perfect? Certainly not me. Perhaps you have been worse than others, but no one else has ever had to walk in your shoes…to endure what you’ve endured and survive…to protect your family at the expense of their love for you…to do what you must, no matter how distasteful, in order to make your escape…I get it now. I do.”
She smiled then. A full smile that lit up her face and made her eyes all but glow.
“Bea, the truth is…I want to laugh with you until our sides hurt. I want to dry your tears, and you mine. I want adventures with you by my side; I want boredom until we both want to cry. I want to break fast with you each morn and sup with you each night. I want you in my arms when I go to sleep, and there again when I wake in the morn. I want to experience joy with you, and sorrow. I want all of it…the good, the bad, and the mundane. I want life. With you.” He touched her face. Then, he said…
“I love you.”
Bea looked down and touched her forehead to his chest…not quite the reaction he was hoping for.
She shook her head, but her hands wandered his back, a contradiction to her implied no.
“Cliff…” His heart picked up speed. She called him by his given name. It gave him hope.
She pulled back and looked at him; held his hands in hers. “I am flattered…”
He heard the ‘but’ before she said it…He saw her lips form to make the sound of a B and started shaking his head no preemptively.
She ignored that and said that hated word anyway. “But I don’t see how we can possibly have a future…” She held her hand up. “Don’t interrupt. You see me, now please, hear me.” She swallowed and took a moment’s pause. Then, on a sigh, she began, somewhat less steadily. “I-I was raped by your brother as a child. I know that isn’t your fault, you had nothing to do with it. Yet I still feel it is a problem that stands to come between us if we’re not careful. If that is not bad enough, I killed your brother. I know you never held a high regard for him. He was cruel, and you were young when you thought he’d died. But he was still your brother. Your flesh and blood. And the thought of me killing him would weigh heavily on your mind at times…do not deny it, for I wouldn’t believe you. It would threaten to come forth whenever we had a fight. And we would fight, from time to time.
“And if only that were all…” She shook her head. And continued.
“I have no remaining respect in society. I don’t care nor do I wish to return to that life. I cannot risk my sisters’ safety to be a part of your world. But it is your world; you have no choice. You have an obligation to the marquisate you cannot ignore.” Her voice trailed off. He could see the pain in her eyes despite her words of rejection. She wanted to say yes; he could see it as plain as day.
“Are you finished?” He couldn’t give her a chance to continue. She’d find something else and something else…excuse after excuse.
She nodded her head.
“None of that matters to me. You’re smart. I’m smart. We’ll manage. I love you. And do you know one final reason…the best reason…why we should marry?”
“No…but I suspect you’re going to enlighten me.” She looked skeptical.
He smiled then, wide and full. He tried to exude confidence with his grin, but beneath the surface he was scared to death.
He tilted her chin and spoke carefully. “You love me.”
She smiled at that, though a little surprise was evident.
He continued, “I’ve seen it in your eyes when you let down your guard. I know you do.”
She didn’t try to deny it.
“You have to trust me, Bea.”
But she didn’t. Nor did she change her mind.
He could add stubborn to her list of characteristics.
Chapter 46
“Three grand essentials to happiness in this life are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.”
―Joseph Addison
Bloomfield Park…
One Week Later…
She was gone. Off to her little cottage. Living on her own.
And he was lost within this great big house with only the servants, Aunt Harriett, and Grace and Ambrose for company.
They were all present under this massive roof Aunt Harriett called home. But he wasn’t. Present that was. Oh, sure, he was here physically. But his heart wasn’t. It was ten miles down the road in a little cottage beside a field of green. It belonged to a woman who was stronger and braver than anybody he’d ever known.
And he was slightly the worse for drink because of it. As he had been all week.
He rolled over in bed on a groan and rubbed his face in his pillow. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until he thought he might have rubbed away his eyebrows. He would suggest this to Ambrose. The sensation was somewhat numbing to his face.
What was she doing right now? It was mid-morning. Was she in bed? Lighting a fire? Exercising?
God, why did he torment himself this way? Wondering about her. He should be trying to forget her. She’d made her choice. He esteemed her enough to respect her decision.
What he really wanted to do was grunt like a beast, beat his chest, and claim her as “Mine.” His emotions ran the gamut of feelings. From irritation to misery to numbness to…nothing.
He made a wide berth of grief. He feared if he looked too closely at despair, he might never recover.
He wanted to growl. He wanted to hold on to her and force her to stay. Give her absolutely no choice whatsoever.
Of a sudden, the door to his room opened. He sat up in bed, cursing the additional light and the interruption to his misery. He was hung over and irritable and on the brink of utter grief. He knew it was true—he could feel it creeping up on him slowly but surely.
He was certainly in no mood to deal with people who would interfere with his wallowing.
But it was Aunt Harriett. He couldn’t very well kick her out.
And she was scowling. Which provided him with something new to be concerned about.
Worse, she had a hold of her umbrella.
The Umbrella.
She walked across his room with It clutched firmly in her grasp. She was headed straight for his side of his bed.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t look away.
And she most definitely wasn’t happy.
When she reached his side, she didn’t pause. She raised that infernal Umbrella and whacked him right over the head with it. Without even a moment’s hesitation
or a single sign of remorse.
And then, she simply turned on her heel with a huff and left; or at least, that was her intention. She was certainly headed toward the door.
He rubbed his aching head. “Ow…what was that for?” He was convinced she’d just hit him so hard, she’d bent It, her favorite umbrella. It would be ruined. He should point that out. He wouldn’t buy her a new one either, dammit.
Had she really made such a habit of this? Bashing people with The Umbrella such that he’d known what she was about the minute she walked through his door?
Normally, Aunt Harriett wouldn’t answer. He knew that, too.
And he really hadn’t expected her to this time. Surprisingly, she did.
“You let her get away, you fool.” She yelled back to him as she marched across his room. She didn’t miss a step and never once looked back.
“But I tried,” he called out. He sounded like he was two again. He only just stopped himself from throwing out his lip, crossing his arms, and attempting to kick the footboard.
Was this what he’d become? A whining, simpering fool because he couldn’t have what he wanted. Was it his way of avoiding just how unpleasant the thought of losing her was?
Or perhaps, he didn’t yet truly believe she was gone for good.
Whatever, his near-whine gave Aunt Harriett pause, but she still didn’t turn around to look at him. Instead, she simply said, “You didn’t try hard enough,” as she faced the doorway and the hallway beyond.
Ha! As if he’d let Bea go with ease. “She wouldn’t have me. You should speak to her if this displeases you.” He all but pouted again and crossed his arms. Yea, he sounded three at best. This time he did stomp his foot.
It made little impact in bed.
“Yea, well, I did. Saw her yesterday, in fact. And I beat her over the head, too.”
He laughed and cocked his head. “You did?” He couldn’t help the smile. He could imagine the sight quite vividly in his mind.
This time Aunt Harriett half turned to face him, one brow raised in question. Maybe Ambrose adopted his habit from her?
“Do you doubt me?”
