A Secret Passion

by Sophia Nash

“I shall write to your daughter, with your permission, sir, to inform her of our happy conversation,” Rolfe said.

  “I am certain she will receive both your and my correspondence with the utmost delight,” responded Lord Fairchild with a little less certainty in his voice.

  Rolfe almost laughed at the absurdity of Lord Fairchild’s pleasantry. As Rolfe voiced his good-bye, he noticed the door to the study opened just a fraction of a moment before he arrived at the exit. The balding butler frowned at him as he accompanied Rolfe to the front hallway. He had the strangest impression that the man wanted to speak to him. Shaking his head, he turned his back on the butler and footman and departed with a feeling of emptiness in his person.

  Chapter Seven

  THOMAS was bored. He cursed his boredom within the confines of his room at Hesperides. He had shot every last grouse in this corner of the world, and surely he had caught enough trout to feed a ballroom full of priests. He reasoned that he had been a good guest and had done what was required of him. It had been more than two weeks since the earl had departed, and three days since Clarissa Fairchild and Jane Lovering had left Littlefield. Through discreet questioning of tradespeople in the village, he had learned that the two ladies had set out for Cornwall.

  God help him. He had vowed never to set foot in that godforsaken part of England again. And he would not. As he packed the last few remaining items into his traveling bag, Thomas felt a bit guilty concerning the cowardly fashion of his imminent departure. He had left a note for the dowager countess begging off her insistent hospitality. Vague estate problems, he forwarded, forced him to continue his original journey home. He had hinted in a way that could not be construed a total fabrication. He was sure to have a pressing problem or three upon his arrival in Chichester.

  Thomas finally grabbed his hat from the desk and found himself performing a most ungentlemanly tiptoe down the main stair before he forced himself to tread normally. He gave the footman stationed at the Hall’s entrance the letter for Lady Graystock and murmured the required civilities before leaving.

  While riding to the end of the village road, Thomas marveled at his good luck. He had not been stopped by the dowager countess or anyone else. He was free. Free to leave this place that had witnessed the opening of old wounds. The last three and a half weeks had seemed an eternity. He was tired of facing old emotions in the country, where time was heavy. After a brief visit home, he would return to the gay life of town, where amusements could divert the mind.

  He was a confirmed bachelor at heart. His dealings with women had proven to him without a doubt that the fairer sex had been put on earth to torment him. For these reasons, it confounded Thomas to find himself heading toward Cornwall not more than three hours into his journey. He rode kicking and talking to himself the entire way. He wanted nothing more than to turn back toward Chichester. But the small, constant voice of his conscience urged his mount further southward. By the time he arrived at Land’s End, he would have a plan.

  The letter from the earl reached Jane the same day two letters arrived from her father. One was for Clarissa, the other for herself. With unease, she accepted the missives from the footman and set out for the copse in the side garden. Her steps became more agitated as she neared her destination.

  She had thought the earl would leave their business be. It had never occurred to her that he would pursue the matter. The cream parchment weighed heavily in her palm. Her fingers traced Graystock’s red wax seal. She could feel a flush rising from her collarbones as she opened the first letter.

  Dear Mrs. Lovering,

  It is to be hoped that you open this letter without too much trepidation. You must have known I would write to you at the earliest possible moment to resolve the circumstances of our last encounter. I am only sorry that affairs in town prevent me from immediately flying to your side to discuss our future in person. Any flutterings of affection must wait until we see each other in the near future.

  I have had the pleasure of an audience with your good father this afternoon. We have reached an agreement regarding a betrothal. With your permission, I would suggest our marriage take place within a fortnight, in Littlefield or Land’s End, whichever is preferable to you.

  Be not alarmed that I will require your presence in the future. I am familiar with your feminine sensibilities. You will be given the choice of living in town or in Littlefield during the different seasons of the year. I am sure my grandmother will be delighted by your presence. I will not interfere with your life as you so desire. I would insist only on modest decorum on both sides.

  I do not require nor desire any children from our union. My brother’s child will ensure the continuation of the line.

  I bid you good day and assure you of my arrival within the next ten days. I hope beyond words that you will accept my visit and my proposal. I thank you in advance for your kind welcome.

  Yours sincerely,

  Rolfe Fitzhugh St. James

  Well! Of all the puffed-up audacity. It was unbelievable. Jane reread the letter a second time to ensure that it was as bad as she had thought on first perusal. Horrid, arrogant man! The letter commanded her obeisance. It was sure of itself, and even sneering in passages. It was insulting, too. It was as unflattering as the gentleman himself. She longed to obliterate every line from her memory.

  She broke the seal of her father’s letter without any curiosity. She already knew the contents. It would be filled with flattery about Jane’s great conquest. It would welcome her back into the family with grace. And it would contain all the falsehoods of an unloving father’s feelings toward his only daughter. It would not question her response to the proposal. Oh, when would her father ever love and accept her for her true self? But then, her father had never accepted anyone. He had dictated everyone’s affairs his entire life. He was so sure of the path to happiness. It was by following the rules of society and maintaining a level of prosperity necessary for living in said society. There was to be no deviation from these standards no matter how much unhappiness ensued.

  The letter confirmed her thoughts. But her father had surpassed himself in the use of compliments toward the earl. He must be providing her father with more gold than Lord Fairchild had ever conjured up in his fondest dreams. Jane’s stomach clenched with disgust.

  She envisioned the earl’s bronzed hand composing the letter with little more effort than ten minutes’ time. She could almost guess that he had been smiling cynically while he composed it. His dislike for her flowed between each line. Well, she would relieve him of his duty with pleasure equal to the obvious pleasure he took in tormenting her.

  Jane walked back to the house through the wet grass and the daisies that were just now sprouting. She stopped as she spied a giant silk moth hidden in the shadows of the sidewall stones of the house, well camouflaged by its brown markings against the branches of a dog rose bush. The “eyes” on its wings were hidden among the many folds of the retracted wings. The large moth would fascinate Harry. She contemplated capturing it to show him but could not find it within herself to trap the creature. Something about the killing of these moths repulsed her. The forced spread of the insect’s wings and the pins through the thorax reminded Jane of crucifixion. With her hand, Jane tugged and released the slim branch to force the moth to flight and its freedom.

  The Earl of Graystock had chosen the written mode to announce to Jane the news of their betrothal with good reason. He was convinced that by writing to her he would give her the chance to huff and puff about the idea, be furious with him, and then accept the plan as the only viable means for her future. He really had no desire to endure her gyrations. Feminine arguments bored him. But he was curious about the state of Mrs. Lovering’s mind. He felt quite generous in his offer to arrange for the marriage to take place in Land’s End or Littlefield. He had condescended to give her a choice.

  It had also become clear to him that the root of all of the Fairchilds’ financial woes lay in the sweaty palms of the young
est Fairchild, although certainly, the father held some of the blame for not tempering the actions of the son. The sums of money that had slipped through the clutched hands of young Fairchild were absurd. By Rolfe’s estimation, the family had lived beyond their annual income of six thousand a year by at least the same amount. The names of every moneylender Rolfe knew of and many he did not headed the notes in his hands. His secretary was silent before him with eyes downcast.

  The secretary cleared his throat and asked for instructions.

  “Pay them. And I will draft a note to Fairchild, the younger, requesting his presence at dinner tonight. Tell Jenkins to arrange for a guest at my table. And see to it that Lord Fairchild receives a copy of our agreement and the bank draft on the morrow,” he commanded while sifting through the agreement.

  “As you say, my lord,” said the secretary.

  “And another thing, Mr. Christian. I will not tolerate discussion of the terms of this agreement with anyone. From this moment forward, it will not be discussed, nor referred to when my future countess takes residence,” Rolfe insisted, looking over the tops of the pages.

  “Of course, my lord,” intoned the secretary in a well-practiced monotone as he reviewed several sheets of paper.

  Rolfe stared at the young secretary until Mr. Christian raised his eyes to meet his gaze. Mr. Christian tried to maintain the stare but was unable and finally lowered his eyes to his hands. The ticking of the clock became very loud.

  “That will be all, Christian,” the earl stated with the icy cordiality and finality of all his orders.

  Jane spent the morning bent over her foolscap. She wondered which character should move the story along. There seemed to be too many important characters. Untangling the maze was like pulling a comb through a windblown head of hair. And the two main protagonists were not in enough scenes together. Worse, she was having trouble immersing herself in her work. Thoughts of Harry, and of her father and the earl, kept popping into her mind, making writing a coherent sentence impossible. What to do? As she forced her characters into unnatural actions, Jane wondered about her future and how it would unfold.

  She was mostly apprehensive about the task itself, that of getting married. Harry could not arrange for a special license, as he was a gentleman without title or money. The banns would have to be read for several weeks in the neighborhood church. And of course, of all the luck, Harry’s father, the rector of Land’s End, had gone to Bristol to help his ailing brother, another rector. She and Harry had not been able to envision running off to Gretna Green, as had so many other desperate couples. That seemed only for the truly reckless, and it was so far away. So they had decided to maintain the secrecy of their betrothal. They had agreed to go to Scotland only if Jane’s father or anyone else tried to disrupt their plans. Jane longed to confide in Clarissa, but embarrassment prevented it.

  The Earl of Graystock’s letter added to her discomfort. Each day that he did not appear, her temper, alternating with relief, rose a notch higher. The audacity of a written proposal and the certainty of its acceptance galled her to no end. Again she envisioned his large hand writing the proposal in businesslike efficiency and was disgusted. She suddenly remembered the feel of those same callused hands caressing the inside of her thighs. A shiver ran through her shoulders.

  A more awkward dinner was hard to imagine. Two gentlemen, strangers to one another, one young and one older, dined alone under the gaze of four elegant footmen. Rolfe did not make the smallest effort to entertain his guest, Theodore Fairchild. A single arched eyebrow rebuffed most of Mr. Fairchild’s stabs at conversation. By the time dessert was served, all attempts at dialogue had ceased along with the younger gentleman’s appetite.

  “We will forgo dessert, Jenkins, I believe. Mr. Fairchild and I will retire to the library, where we do not wish to be disturbed,” Rolfe said with finality.

  “Yes, my lord,” replied the butler.

  Theodore’s face, already pale, seemed to turn a shade whiter.

  The gentlemen decamped to the polished library. The slight scents of saddle soap and lemons permeated the dark room filled with books on shelves, floor to ceiling. Two rolling ladders leaned against opposite walls, facilitating the retrieval of the uppermost volumes. Rolfe motioned to his guest to help himself to the brandy in the nearby glittering decanter. When Theodore turned from the table, he almost dropped his glass. Rolfe stood, legs wide apart, holding a riding crop in one hand and tapping it into the palm of his other hand.

  “Would you care to explain the papers beside you?” Rolfe questioned as he nodded toward a stack of notes on the side table adjacent to Theodore’s seat.

  “Now, see here, my lord, you have no right to question me,” replied Theodore with as much hauteur as he could muster.

  “Oh, I think I do. To put it very plainly, Theodore—I may call you Theodore, then?” he asked without any doubt of the reply. Rolfe knew Theodore was much too embarrassed to do more than nod in the affirmative, even though he probably had no desire to be called by his given name. “I have every right to question these exorbitant sums. I want to understand what I am paying for.”

  Theodore avoided Rolfe’s direct stare and found his seat. He nervously placed his glass on the small table and picked up the sheaf of papers. In an offhanded manner, Theodore answered, “Well, let’s see here. This one is for the racing curricle I plan to use to win the races at the fall meets. And this one is, ah… for a lady’s, ah, how shall we say… favors. And this next one is to settle—” Theodore stopped as he saw Rolfe’s hand rise into the air.

  “That, dear boy, is not the question I asked,” Rolfe said. He placed the riding crop on the table and walked around the corner of the desk. Leaning against the edge, he crossed his arms. “Now you will tell me why you would conceive to spend these sums, which neither you nor your father possesses.”

  “My lord, you do not frighten me. You have paid these bills, and you are to marry my sister. And you’ve saved my father from becoming a bankrupt. But you are not entitled to know the answer to your question.”

  “You have a choice, then. I will ask you again, and you will answer, Theodore, or you may have the thrashing you deserve,” he finished. “Actually, I prefer the thrashing technique. It allows me to vent my anger, and to make certain that you would not consider an idiotic repeat performance of your ability to accumulate debt. Yes, corporal punishment works very well, I have found,” he concluded, picking up the crop again.

  Theodore jumped to his feet. “You wouldn’t dare. You are to marry my sister, we are to become… brothers.”

  Rolfe strode to within two feet of the young gentleman, and paused as he raised the crop. “Given your current habits, I do not think I will choose to call you ‘brother,’ “ he replied. “Besides, I already have one dissolute brother. I don’t need another.”

  Theodore slitted his eyes and dared him. “You won’t do it.”

  Rolfe brought the crop down with all his force against Theodore’s shoulder and chest. He viewed the cub’s shocked expression with disdain and raised his crop again. Changing his mind, he grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and shook him.

  “All right, all right, I’ll tell you. Just stop—”

  “I’m not letting you go until I hear your pitiful excuses.”

  “I don’t know why I did it. Why I spent all this money.”

  Rolfe tightened his grasp on the neckcloth.

  “All right, I’ll tell you. Let me go… please.”

  Theodore sagged into the seat as Rolfe leaned against the desk once more. He allowed the boy to sob into the handkerchief he’d provided before probing again.

  “Come now, be a man. What is this all about?”

  “I suppose it all began as a way to punish my father. And I suppose I can tell you the truth, as you will be part of the family. But I must warn you that Jane knows nothing of this, and you must swear you will not tell her. I have not been a good brother to her of late, but I do love her, and I want none
of this to hurt her. She has suffered enough.”

  “I will not swear to anything until I know all the facts.”

  “Oh, all right.” Theodore paused to blow his nose noisily. “It started five years ago, when my mother died. You know of course that it was an accident. A hunting accident—my mother was shot by a stray bullet that was meant to fell a stag.” Theodore stopped to organize his thoughts. “Of course it was a shock. My father immediately packed us all off to London ‘for a change of scene that will do us all good,’ he said. I don’t think Jane and I felt the way my father did. He was always controlling in the extreme. Anyway, it gave me a chance for the first time in my life to get away from him. It was easy to disappear in town with all its diversions. I made friends. We made merry. I spent the family fortune, plain and simple.”

  “You spent your family’s fortune to punish your father because he was too controlling? I think not. If your father was too controlling, he would have sent you away—or at least back to the country once he saw your excessive habits.”

  “But it was not just that,” continued Theodore.

  “What was it, then?”

  “Well… You are forcing me to tell you something that not a living soul knows except my father and me…He killed my mother. He was the one who shot her.” He wiped his brow and stared at his lap.

  “You saw this? You are certain?”

  “Well, yes. I was in a different position than my father in the wooded area. I heard a shot. And I found my father standing over my mother, a short time later when I was crossing to the place where I had just downed a stag. My father insisted our gamekeeper had fired and killed her by accident—but my sire held the discharged gun.”

  “You must have confronted him, asked for the truth,” he said.

  “You don’t know my father. He would of course tell me it was an accident, especially if it were not. And he did not tolerate my mother at all in the end. I think he always resented the fact that it was my mother who brought the estate, the stables, and the fortune to their marriage. He hushed up the whole murderous business by paying off our gamekeeper to take the blame for her death. That man was happy to take the money and tell his story when he did not have to go to jail after the inquisition to confirm the accident.”