Haunting Miss Trentwood

by Belinda Kroll

  “You haven’t had the easiest year, have you?” Hartwell said, his warm breath tickling the hairs on her neck.

  She rolled her forehead against his shoulder in a silent, “No.”

  “And here I come, bringing accusations of blackmail to your door.” Hartwell pressed his face against her neck and against her ear, trying to nose her away from his shoulder so she would face him. She pulled away, ashamed that tears streamed down her face, no doubt making her nose red and her eyes bloodshot. She was not a pretty crier, but she faced Hartwell, her lip trembling.

  “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I am very sorry.”

  Mary licked her lip, tasting the sharp bitterness of iron. Apparently she had cracked her lip open during her fall. No wonder her father and Hartwell seemed so frantic. How awful did she look?

  She couldn’t look so very awful, not when Hartwell managed to look at her in such a way that made her chest tighten and her stomach flip.

  They had reached the manor house by that point, and Mary was almost sorry for it. Her lips parted, wanting to say something, anything, to postpone Hartwell from announcing their arrival. Hartwell, at the same time, leaned a fraction closer. He had such nice eyes, such clear and gentle eyes.

  The door opened to reveal Steele, ushering them inside as he tucked a warmed, woolen blanket around Mary nestled in Hartwell’s arms, and another around Hartwell’s shoulders. He guided them to the parlor, where a stoked fire raged and a pot of hot chocolate waited. The warm, soothing aroma hit Mary, and she sighed softly, already anticipating the velvety liquid touching her parched throat.

  The sofa, angled to face the fire, was covered with all the extra blankets in the house, so when Hartwell placed Mary on it she didn’t fear of water-staining her mother’s furniture. She shivered violently as both men worked at peeling away her soaked shawl and waterlogged boots. Hartwell rubbed her hands between his own, and Steele dabbed at her wet feet.

  Slowly but surely, Mary began to feel an uncomfortable tingling in her limbs. She hadn’t realized they had gone numb in the cold. As the fire warmed her, and she sipped some of the warmed chocolate Hartwell pushed against her lips, her eyes began to droop.

  “She knows I would never do anything to hurt her, doesn’t she? She knows that I meant no harm when I spoke earlier, out of jealousy?” Mary heard Steele whisper.

  Hartwell wiped the rivulets of water that continued to stream from her hair.

  “Mary,” she heard Trentwood’s voice say, “you know I meant no harm when I spoke out of fear the day of your mother’s death?”

  “I know you didn’t,” she mumbled, falling into a deep, and thankfully dreamless, sleep.

  ***

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  While Mary slept, Steele showed Hartwell the letters.

  “Dammit,” Hartwell hissed.

  Steele nodded. “That’s what I said.”

  They watched Mary sleep. She burrowed under the blankets so they could only see her nose, closed eyes, and her damp hair. Hartwell dabbed away water that ran from her hair down the length of her nose. Steele tucked the blankets firmly around her bare feet. Together, they moved to the coldest corner of the parlor, as far away from the fire and Mary as possible without leaving the room.

  “That was quick thinking, preparing the room for our return,” Hartwell muttered.

  Steele scuffed his shoe against the threadbare rug. “How could I have acted otherwise; you shamed me into doing it.”

  Hartwell said, “Well, I’m glad I said whatever I did then.” He lifted the letters in his hand. “What are we to do about this?”

  “I was hoping you would know. You came here knowing a blackmailer was in the house. Did you truly not know it was Mrs. Durham?” Steele whispered. He glanced over his shoulder at Mary to make certain she was asleep and couldn’t hear them. She shifted, disappearing even further into her blankets with a little sigh.

  Hartwell tilted his head from side-to-side in a physical show he had his suspicions. “The woman seems... erratic. I don’t know her story, but she hasn’t been good to Mary. Not understanding at all, given the circumstances. Which reminds me, you’ve been a sore point in this house, or didn’t you know that?”

  “Are you being serious?” Steele recoiled from Hartwell’s implications. A sore point? Hartwell could only mean in terms of his relationship, or lack thereof, with Mary.

  “Of course I am,” Hartwell snapped. “Or didn’t you know Mary’s been pining after you since she last saw you? Did you not see how she looked at you when you arrived? For the love of all that’s holy, man, you’re the dumbest person I know.”

  Steele’s lip curled. “Well, you’re the ugliest person I know.”

  “Excellent.” Hartwell grinned. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, what are we to do about Mrs. Durham? She’s obviously a bit batty, threatening my sister with me under her roof!” He tapped the letters against his lip. “Probably shouldn’t accuse her outright.”

  “That would hardly be gentlemanly.”

  “No,” Hartwell agreed, “it wouldn’t. But it would be a lot of fun.” He caught Steele staring at him. “What? What is it?”

  “Sincerely, you are the ugliest man I’ve ever met,” Steele said in wonder.

  “Now that’s what I call ungentlemanly. Who calls a man ugly to his face, I wonder?”

  “What happened to you? This,” Steele said, waving at Hartwell’s disfigurement, “is not from birth, I assume.”

  Hartwell shook his head. “An accident.” He clapped his hand on Steele’s shoulder. “We’ll go over it some other time, when we haven’t a blackmailer in our midst. She’s threatened to kidnap my nephew. I can’t allow that.”

  Leaning against the wall, Steele rested his forehead on his raised forearm. “I could approach Mrs. Durham,” he murmured, “she seems to have a fondness for me. Or rather, she’s fonder of me than she is of you, and perhaps I could get a confession out of her.”

  Steele noticed the way Hartwell’s brows rose and fell quickly. “I can do it,” he insisted.

  “She could be dangerous,” Hartwell cautioned.

  “No woman so attached to an annoying dog could be the slightest bit dangerous.”

  “I disagree. It’s an unhealthy obsession. Makes me wonder what other sort of manias she might have.” When Steele pouted, Hartwell rolled his eyes. “What now?”

  “How have I been a sore point? Just how can you know such a thing?”

  “It turns out, Steele, that if you’re friendly to a lonely woman, you can learn about her, and this is the most shocking point, you can learn to care for her. Pomeroy filled in the details, but it was fairly easy to see she’d been jilted and wasn’t taking it lightly, especially with her father’s illness and death.” Hartwell looked across the room at Mary, his expression softening. “She’s a right foot soldier, that one, and puts up with much nonsense. It’s a wonder she hasn’t broken.”

  Steele scoffed, and Hartwell’s attention swiveled to him. “And I’m to believe you, a man who’s obviously jealous of my history with Miss Trentwood?”

  Hartwell shrugged. “Think what you like. You can ask her yourself, if you’re brave enough.”

  “Stop insinuating that I’m a coward!”

  “Didn’t think I was insinuating. I’m being quite plain.”

  Mary coughed weakly as she began to emerge from the blankets. “What are you two arguing about?” she rasped.

  Steele and Hartwell were at her side instantly to push her beneath the blankets again.

  “You shouldn’t move; you’re unwell,” Steele said.

  “You need the rest,” Hartwell added.

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to rest with you two bickering in the corner the way my aunt and mother used to do,” Mary muttered, her eyes already closing again. “I can only assume it’s either about me or this supposed blackmailer.” Her voice began to drift off. “You’re adults, I’m certain you can handle it.”

  Hartwell a
nd Steele shared a look that said, “I hope so.”

  ***

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Mary dreamed she was dancing with Steele. She wore a low-cut, cream-colored bodice decorated with pearls, and had a dragonfly barrette in her high-piled hair. Her dancing heels pinched her toes, and her elbow-length gloves were slipping.

  She was aware, acutely aware, of the way his fingers tightened their grasp at her waist, and the way he led her so surely across the floor. He was in his dress blacks, and he positively shone golden beneath the candlelight.

  She was just as aware of her father watching them from across the room, his arms crossed over his chest. Her throat constricted. Would Trentwood ever approve of a gentleman who showed interest in her? She would be on the shelf before long, if Trentwood kept up this inane protectiveness. Her brows knit together as Steele led her through a particularly tight spin.

  If Mary was being completely honest with herself, then she, her dream self anyway, knew she was already on the shelf, and this entire dance was a farce. Steele wasn’t interested in her anymore than he was interested in any of the other older women.

  When the dance ended, she followed Steele to the refreshments table, smiling at a joke of his.

  “Would you care to dance?” a low voice said from behind Mary as she accepted a cup of champagne from Steele.

  She turned to find Hartwell. At least Mary thought it was Hartwell. He had the same dark hair as Hartwell and dark eyes. A smile burst across his face when she looked at him. Her breath caught in her throat. He was in his dress blacks as well, and looked almost dangerous in comparison to Steele’s golden sheen.

  He had no scar.

  Mary stepped forward, her champagne forgotten though she carried it with her.

  “Miss Trentwood?” Steele asked. “Miss Trentwood, we have another dance.”

  “Do we?” Mary said. She studied Hartwell’s face. Without the scar, he was quite handsome, in an unconventional way. He had a large forehead and so he wore his hair long to minimize the breadth of it. His eyes twinkled at her in the candlelight.

  “Is something amiss?” Hartwell said, brushing his fingers across his cheek. “Is there something on my face?”

  Mary laughed. “No, indeed, there is a lack of something.”

  “Does it displease you?” Hartwell said, his voice low.

  Mary tilted her head, thinking a moment. True, Hartwell was quite handsome... but he seemed to know it. He smiled as he always did, but his carriage was not easy and comfortable; it was stiff and self-conscious. He knew his beauty and was uncomfortable with it. Why?

  Mary could only imagine what she might have done had she been as handsome. Married young… become the toast of London, be all the things her mother had been to Society.

  And here Hartwell was, standing before her, as handsome as any man she had ever seen, and he disliked the attention. Even more confusing, he sought her out. She, average Mary, out of a sea of lovely ladies whose gazes stuck her with needles in a million and one places for pulling Hartwell from them.

  No, the lack of the scar did not displease her, per se. It was the lack of what the history of the scar in Hartwell’s past seemed to do to him.

  The scar, Mary realized, had freed him of Society’s expectations somehow. Had it chased away the marriage-mad mothers with their sniffling daughters in tow? Had it made him fearsome in the courts where before he had simply been a handsome, promising, young man? Had it given him the confidence to be who he wanted to be, rather than whom everyone else wanted?

  “Miss Trentwood,” Steele said, taking the still-full cup of champagne from her, “it is our dance.”

  Mary snapped out of her reverie. She looked up to find Hartwell watching her, bemused. “Perhaps the next one, Alex?”

  Hartwell started. “You know my name?”

  “Of course,” she admonished, “we are friends, are we not?”

  Hartwell opened his mouth, ready to say something, perhaps ready to argue, but Steele swept Mary away into a waltz, the sort that left her dizzy and laughing. The candle-lit chandeliers bounced over the dancers. The ballroom smelled of perfume and body odor. The air was littered with conversation, music, laughter, tension.

  Mary stumbled from the dance floor, laughing, her hand resting on Steele’s arm, Hartwell long forgotten. “Father, I’d like you to meet Mr. Steele,” she said.

  The air crackled, and the hairs on her arm stood on end. Her father was not her father.

  “Mary,” ghostly Trentwood sighed, rubbing his forehead, “why must you torture yourself like this? What good does it do you to remember times as you wish, rather than as they were?”

  “I don’t understand you,” Mary said with difficulty, her tongue feeling heavy and thick in her mouth. She looked at Steele to find him frozen in place. “What have you done to him?” The more she talked, the lighter her tongue felt. “I swear, Father, you really must stop possessing the bodies of the men who take an interest in me. Surely you must understand how off-putting that is.”

  “I haven’t done a thing. This is your dream.”

  “Dream?” Mary blinked. Oh yes, that’s right. She touched her forehead as a sharp pain jabbed at her temple. The tomb. Hartwell carrying her home. Steele ready with chocolate and blankets. She was asleep in the parlor.

  “Better?” Trentwood said, having watched her muddle through her thoughts.

  She nodded.

  “Are you going to wake up again to avoid talking with me?”

  She shook her head, sheepishly.

  “You,” Trentwood announced, “are too preoccupied with the past. And not even an accurate past, but a past that tortures you.”

  “So then what am I to do? My past is who I am.”

  “No,” Trentwood said, pointing a finger at her nose the way he used to when she was a child, “the past is what got you to where you are today. It is not who you are. You are not the cause of your mother’s death anymore than you are the cause of mine. You are not deformed or average-looking, Steele is just a shallow idiot—exactly what I’ve been telling you the past year. And Hartwell...”

  Mary glanced from the corner of her eye. Hartwell stood frozen as Steele in the shadows of the dance hall, watching the dancers spin and twirl and laugh and gossip. That is, his body faced the dancers. But his eyes were on her. They were on her, and Steele, and Trentwood.

  Trentwood sighed. “Hartwell you have met before, and dismissed. And it’s a wonder that neither of you remember it.”

  Mouth dropping open, Mary released her panicked hold of Steele’s arm. “You’re making fun of me, that’s what you’re doing, because maybe I’m starting to see that you were right about Jasper. How cruel of you! How awful!”

  Trentwood’s palm made contact with her cheek before she could think to duck away from the soft slap. “Do you really think I’ve come back from the dead to laugh at you?”

  “Then why are you here?” she whispered.

  Leaning close, smelling only of peppermint and pipe smoke, his eyes their original amber, Trentwood whispered, “Because you need me.”

  “Why do I need you? What for?”

  “There are dark days coming, Mary.”

  Ready to ask what he meant, Mary jumped when Steele sprang back to life, saying, “A pleasure, sir.”

  “You’ve danced with my daughter twice, now,” Trentwood replied, crossing his arms over his sallow chest. “There will not be a third.”

  Mary watched Hartwell from across the room. It was a dream, she knew she dreamed, but this felt too real. Had she met Hartwell before? Had he been interested and she too blind to see it?

  “Come now, Father, give Mr. Steele some credit. He wouldn’t dare, not without your permission.” Mary spoke the words but did not feel the annoyance she had felt the first time around. Instead, she saw how Hartwell shifted his feet, unsure whether he wanted to approach or retreat. At the last, he retreated, sneaking out a side door, with three mothers trailing behind him, squawking their daug
hters’ virtues at him.

  “Indeed, sir,” Steele said, squeezing Mary’s hand, “I have brought her to you with the hopes I might call upon you at a favorable time tomorrow?”

  Mary looked down at her hand as it rested on Steele’s arm. He was squeezing it, but the caress she felt did not match the action. Someone was stroking their fingers along with her own. Her actual fingers, not her dream fingers. That someone wove their fingers between hers. It was surreal, to watch this dream Steele do one thing, knowing fully well that someone, someone not in her dream, was touching her.

  The realization made Mary jolt awake. She cracked her forehead into Steele’s and fell back with a cry.

  “Good God,” Steele cried, “what on earth made you do that?”

  “Why are you so close?” Mary replied, rubbing her forehead. “Let go of my hand at once.”

  Looking down at their intertwined hands, Steele turned an ugly shade of red and sprang away. “A thousand apologies, Miss Trentwood. I didn’t realize you were awake.”

  “I wasn’t, but that doesn’t give you the liberty to take my hand without asking!”

  “How was he to ask you, if you were asleep?” Hartwell said, entering the parlor with a new tray of hot chocolate. “Though I must say, the lady has a point, Jasper.”

  Mary pushed herself up from the sofa with one hand, still rubbing her forehead with the other. “How long have I slept?”

  “It’s about time for dinner,” Hartwell said, his tone conversational though he gave Steele a dark look, “if you’re feeling well enough for it.”

  Right at that moment, Mary’s stomach decided to groan. “It seems I am.” She accepted a cup of hot chocolate from Hartwell, staring at his face.

  Rather than wincing, as he typically seemed to do, he met her curious gaze with a calm expression. “Is there anything amiss?” He paused, and grinned. “Is there something on my face?”