What have you named the boy? What does your husband think of the boy? Or is that far too personal a question? Good day, my lady. My fingers tire and my soul aches with the burden of knowing your indiscretion.
Another letter, sent moments after the previous
MY DEAREST LADY KIRKHAM,
Keep a close eye on the boy.
It shall not be my fault if you were to lose him in the rough streets of London.
A tear-spattered letter sent from London to Compton Beauchamp
ALEX,
Please find enclosed two of the most awful pieces of paper I’ve ever had to set eyes upon. This brigand, this criminal, is threatening my child, my heir! I am frantic. Mama’s of no help. You must return to London immediately. I am at my wit’s end. I’ve ordered all but our most loyal servants out of the house. I’m not attending any of the parties that I ought to deign by matter of course. Mama swears she knows the identity of the letter writer, but when pressed she says she doesn’t know at all, and the “spirits” are teasing her and won’t tell her a thing.
Alex, I fear Mama is losing her mind. She tells me she can speak to ghosts. She’s as much as admitted that when she suggested to me that you go to Compton Beauchamp to ask after Mrs. Durham, that the “spirits” told her to do so.
Alex, come home. You are on a fool’s errand. You must return and protect me. Protect us. Baby Henry is inconsolable without his uncle. I’ve a fair mind to run about the house screaming. It wouldn’t be out of place. The house is so empty!
Please return to us. We are all in pieces without you to anchor us.
Ever devoted,
Your sister, Florence, Lady Kirkham
***
NINETEEN
Hartwell sat in the chair at Mary’s bedside. He shifted, thinking maybe that would grab her attention, but no. He continued to wait for her to emerge from behind the emotional fortress she had erected upon regaining some semblance of lucidity.
Mary’s bedroom matched the remainder of the house in terms of once-subtle wealth turned shabby from age. There were pillows propped on two chairs and piled on the window seat. Throws made of lace were draped across the vanity, which she had made functional by propping a portable writing desk against the mirror. Indeed, it seemed the vanity was her writing desk more often than not, if the piles of paper on either side meant anything.
It was, on the whole, a comfortable escape of a room from the rest of the manor house. The colors were muted but not dreary. There were books piled on the bedside table, and each had a ribbon in it to mark where Mary had left it.
Hartwell decided he liked that. He wasn’t one to be satisfied reading just one item at a time either. And while his reading habits were, perhaps, a bit more pedestrian than Mary’s, for he would never consider Greek a bedside read, he took comfort in knowing he was not the only bluestocking left in all of England, as his sister was so often fond of whining.
Hartwell shivered. Though the window was closed, the room felt frigid. He envied Mary her two coverlets. She seemed unaware of their warming existence though; she shivered as violently as he did. He had half a mind to rub his hands down the length of her arms, both for the exercise and to help her regain some heat.
Mary stared into the far corner of her bedroom, which was, Hartwell suddenly realized, where it seemed the frigidity came from. Odd.
Hartwell followed Mary’s line of sight, making note of the fact that she pouted as though being lectured. He had affected the very same expression once upon a time when his own dear father had been alive to lecture him. He stared into the corner. What was she looking at?
Hartwell squinted. He frowned. He rubbed his aching forehead. He turned away to face Mary, and in doing so, saw from the corner of his eye the eerie shape of a shadow where none had been a moment before.
Hartwell swiveled in his chair. There was nothing in that corner. The room seemed to drop a degree in temperature. He rotated, slowly, so when he looked at the corner of the room from the very edge of his periphery, he could see the shadow of a man quite clearly.
Hartwell jumped from his seat. The chair toppled to the floor behind him.
“Have you seen something, Alex?” Mary said. Her voice was flat, and her pupils dilated. She turned to him almost mechanically.
Hartwell hesitated. He looked in the corner. Nothing was there. He couldn’t see anything. Yet, when he relied on his peripheral, there stood a man in the corner. He was certain of it. He was as certain of seeing a man in the corner as he was certain he stood on two feet.
His stomach rumbled unpleasantly. He met Mary’s apathetic gaze. “You know, I think perhaps your cook has poisoned us.”
That shook Mary out of her trance, or whatever it was that had her in thrall. “What?”
“Why, you were violently ill not an hour ago, and now I’m seeing things. We must have eaten something rotten.”
Mary’s expression cleared, then brightened. “Yes, that must be it.” She nodded. “We must have eaten something rotten.”
“Either that, or you’re trying to poison me so I don’t accuse you of blackmail. Believe me, poison is a worse offense.”
Mary’s mouth dropped open. “What did you just say to me?”
“I’m certain I can’t speak plainer, but I’m game to try. If you’re blackmailing my sister and think by poisoning me you’re going to scare me away, you’re out of your mind.”
“I must be out of my mind.” Mary swallowed. “You’re accusing me of poisoning you! I became ill before you. Why would I poison myself?”
“I’ve seen your life, it isn’t the happiest. I’ve seen people in better situations take their lives, however unnecessarily.”
Mary squeaked her outrage.
“For all I know, you ate the poisoned food to escape this labyrinth you’re in the middle of, and decided to take me with you to keep you company.”
Mary’s mouth flapped as she fought to find the words she wanted to fling at him. Unable to, she kicked the coverlet from her legs and jumped to the floor. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” she fumed. “I’m not the happiest of ladies, but I’ve met far unhappier, as have you, or have you—very conveniently, I might add!—forgotten about my aunt? She has lost her parents, her sister, her husband, her brother-in-law, all in the last fifteen years! If you must point your misdirected and heartless pity somewhere, point it at her.”
Hartwell hissed on the inhale. Mary wasn’t done.
“If you’re so convinced I’m blackmailing your sister, we will have Jasper pull out my papers right now. He will be able to show you not only do I not have the funds that your blackmailer has most likely been extorting from your sister, he can also tell you I haven’t the funds for new pen and paper to write the letters!”
Hartwell pointed at the stacks of paper at her vanity.
Mary stormed over to the vanity, lifted her arm high in the air, and swept both piles to the floor. “Bills,” she screamed, “debts, liens. Reminders my father fell ill and died before he meant to.”
Hartwell was afraid she might empty her stomach again. Though he doubted she had anything left to vomit after that impressive, if disgusting, display downstairs.
Mary began to advance on him.
Hartwell backed away from the livid glint in her eye. He flinched when she grabbed his hand, but didn’t fight when she towed him down the stairs. Her grip was strong, not painful.
“You’re so certain I’ve something against you, or your sister, when I’ve never heard of either of you. So let’s see this precious paperwork of my father’s so I may sleep exonerated tonight.”
Hartwell figured he should have been more afraid of Mary at that point. Instead, there was the oddest sensation of admiration and respect welling inside him, which felt ironic and perverse, to say the least. And satisfying, to know he had broken her shell. She had spirit. He couldn’t fault her that, especially when she applied it so unlike his sister.
“All right,” he said.
Mary stopped. She rounded on him, skirts swirling around her ankles, mouth open to spew another litany at him. “What?”
“I agreed to look over your paperwork, so I shall. I’ll admit I wanted to do so originally because I wanted to confirm you were or were not the blackmailer.” He smiled. “At least now I don’t have to pretend otherwise.”
Mary’s hands bunched into fists.
Hartwell wondered if Pomeroy, being the “prize one” that he was, had taught her a thing or two.
When her fist connected with his jaw, he had his answer.
***
TWENTY
“Miss Mary, you’re awake. Good,” Pomeroy said as he entered the foyer with a tray of tea. “I was just about to check on you and Mr. ...pardon me, what have you done?”
“She’s just decked me, is what she’s done,” Hartwell said, rubbing his jaw.
Pomeroy smiled. “I was addressing you, sir. I was asking you, what have you done?”
Hartwell grunted.
“Did you know he never cared to make certain my solicitor wouldn’t cheat me, he wanted to look at my papers all this time just to confirm or deny that I’m the blackmailer,” Mary seethed. Her hands were gathering into fists again.
Hartwell backed away. “Temper, temper.”
“It’s rather lucky you never met Mr. Trentwood, sir,” Pomeroy said. “His temper was far worse than Miss Mary’s.”
Mary nodded. “Say one wrong word and he laid you flat to the floor.”
A searing pain shot across Hartwell’s forehead and he realized all of a sudden that his hand ached. It ached as if he had just punched someone, rather than Mary having just punched him. He didn’t remember doing any such thing, but then, where was Steele?
A bell rang from the parlor. Everyone turned at the sound.
“Pomeroy,” Mary said slowly, “who is in the parlor?”
He shifted his weight uneasily. “Mrs. Durham and Mr. Steele.”
“No one is allowed in the parlor, Pomeroy.”
“I know, Miss, but Mrs. Durham insisted.”
“No one.”
Hartwell watched this exchange, working his jaw a bit to get rid of the ache. He had wondered why he had been sent to wait in the library. It had been a rather odd thing at the time. But then, a number of odd things had happened since leaving London, and in the relative scheme of things, he had forgotten about it.
“Yes, Miss,” Pomeroy said, “but you weren’t there to stop her, and I was sent for tea and a compress for Mr. Steele. There’s little I could do.”
Hartwell’s brows rose. Even he couldn’t mistake the frosty tone Pomeroy used. He looked at Mary. She stuck her chin out and blinked rapidly. She was going to cry if she wasn’t careful.
“That is my mother’s parlor, Pomeroy, and Mrs. Durham has no right to it.”
Hartwell frowned. But wasn’t Mrs. Durham the sister of Mary’s mother? The dullness in Mary’s eyes prevented him from voicing the question. Best to wait until he knew her better, he supposed. Though why he assumed he would have the opportunity to get to know her better, after she had soundly displaced his jaw for a moment or more, was beyond him.
The bell rang more insistently.
Mary met Hartwell’s gaze and they shared an odd, intimate look. He was unsure what she meant by her look. It was vulnerable, yet resilient. Soft, yet angry. It was an expression that needed comfort, and he hoped he sent some her way.
“Pomeroy,” Mrs. Durham screeched.
“For the love of all that is mighty,” Hartwell snapped, “give me that.” He grabbed the tea tray from Pomeroy. “The woman needs to calm down. There are other people who need tending to.” He stomped down the hallway to the door that had heretofore been closed: locked, he had assumed. Had Mrs. Durham stolen the key, or were there things about her household Mary didn’t know?
“What are you doing here?” Steele said when Hartwell entered the room.
“I’m giving the woman her damn tea.” Hartwell almost dropped the tray on the marble top table before Steele and Mrs. Durham, but the look of panicked alarm that flew to Mary’s face made him set it down gently.
For all he knew, this was her mother’s tea set. And damned if he was the one to break it just to spite the likes of Mrs. Durham.
“Rude, awful creature,” Mrs. Durham sniffed.
Hartwell barked a laugh. “Rude? Awful? Takes one to know one, my dear Mrs. Durham, or did it not occur to you to inquire after your niece when she was so obviously ill not an hour ago?”
Mrs. Durham’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“Did Steele not tell you that Mary had emptied her stomach and collapsed?”
“Let’s not dwell on that,” Mary rushed to say. “We’ve other matters to concern ourselves with.”
Steele turned an awful shade. “Yes, such as why your guest would attack me!”
“Yes, such as why your solicitor would be so bold as to insinuate that you are not the lady of quality you are,” Hartwell growled, crossing his arms over his chest.
“What?” Mary spun on her heel. “You said what about me?”
Steele threw up his hands in a sort of mock plea. “I didn’t know you when I said those things!”
Mary gulped her air. “Know me! I’ve been unconscious for... I don’t even know how long! How can you possibly know me better now, if what Alex says is true?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I can’t believe I’m saying it, but my father was right about you.”
“What are you all going on about?” Mrs. Durham said.
Hartwell opened his mouth to explain, but Mary held up her hand to silence him.
“We’ve other matters, Aunt. I’m sorry, but Jasper will have to nurse his jaw—that looks rather painful, nicely done, Alex—over his papers. I’m determined to prove something to Alex, and I want it done now.”
Hartwell flinched. He had hoped, futilely it seemed, that Mary would have forgotten about his accusation in the midst of all this hysterical confusion. She really was one of the most annoyingly common-sensical woman he had ever met. Even more annoying was how greatly he enjoyed seeing her at work.
“Yes, indeed,” Hartwell said, “Mary and I have a score to settle, and we need to see the papers right now, Steele.”
Steele stood from the sofa he shared with Mrs. Durham. He was quiet for a moment, studying Mary and Hartwell, looking confused and displeased. “I’m only authorized to go over the papers with Miss Trentwood and her associates.”
Mary and Hartwell exchanged a look.
“I appoint Alex as my associate,” Mary said.
“I accept said appointment,” Hartwell said.
“I think you’re being ridiculous,” Mrs. Durham said.
“No one asked you, dearest,” Mary replied.
“Bravo,” Hartwell couldn’t help but say.
Steele’s jaw clenched. He nodded, and bent to retrieve his satchel at his feet. He flipped it open, stuck his hand inside, and looked at Mrs. Durham. “Terribly sorry, Mrs. Durham, but I’m under strict orders to ask you to give the bereaved and her chosen associates some—” He swallowed, looking a bit green. “—privacy.”
Mrs. Durham was quite gracious about it, actually, which surprised Hartwell. She rose from the sofa, nodded stiffly, and left the room with nary a word, which was just how Hartwell liked her. Silent. Gone.
***
TWENTY-ONE
“Must admit, Mary, you’re more like yourself than I’ve seen you in years,” Trentwood said, standing just behind her.
Mary jumped. She looked at Hartwell and Steele quickly, but they were busy pushing aside her mother’s knickknacks on the coffee table so there was room for the papers. She scowled at Trentwood. She wondered if he could hear her thoughts, now that it seemed he could jump into her dreams at will.
She shuddered. What an awful thought.
“I’d watch it if I were you,” Trentwood said, pointing his finger at her. “We’re going to have that talk,
and we can do it with our mouths or minds. I don’t care either way.”
Mary pressed her lips together in a stern pout. So he could read her mind. Fine then.
What are you doing here? I told you I didn’t want to speak to you.
Trentwood smiled. No, what you said was you would rather be awake than talk to me about your mother. Well, now you’re awake. Good for you.
Mary inhaled. Her nostrils flared.
Waving his hand in a dismissive fashion, Trentwood moved to stand behind the sofa where Steele and Hartwell sat. They were laying the papers on the marble top table, murmuring to one another. I’m here to make certain neither of these fools do you wrong, that’s why I’m here. For the moment.
Mary’s nod was terse.
“We may begin as soon as you are ready, Miss Trentwood,” Steele said, looking up at Mary with that little frown of his.
It didn’t suit him, frowning. It made his face seem pinched.
“By all means,” Mary said. She turned around, unsure which chair she should sit in. One had been her father’s, the other, her mother’s. Her father’s chair was leather, with masculine lines. Though the parlor was her mother’s domain, she had allowed the chair because she had liked her husband to sit with her before the fire on a long winter’s night.
It had been a compromise Mrs. Trentwood had been happy to make, Mary remembered. She remembered laughter when the chair had been plopped in the room. Her mother’s was a deep, rose-colored velvet. Its arms and legs mimicked the curves of a woman’s body, seductive in their gentle slope.
Before Mary knew it, Trentwood sat in his chair. He motioned at the chair beside him.
Mary sat in her mother’s chair. Her back was stiff, and she gripped the arms until her knuckles turned white.
Haunting Miss Trentwood Page 11
