The Redemption of Madeline Munrove

by Mary Campisi

  “But you have traveled from America. Weston has seen more places than I have even read about. I wish to do the same.”

  “But why?” The pleading note in Madeline’s voice scraped Douglas’s insides raw.

  “I can’t live here forever like you, Maddie.” Gregory shrugged his thin shoulders. “I’m sorry. You’re the only one who takes pleasure burying your hands in the black dirt and announcing it fit for the King’s beans.”

  “I thought you enjoyed working the garden. We’ve done it for the past three years.”

  Gregory blushed and mumbled, “I have only done it for you.”

  “Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Well,” she repeated, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “Thank you for the clarification. I had no idea you were so miserable.” She pushed back her chair and stood. “If you will excuse me, I have lost my appetite.” Madeline glanced at Douglas as she hurried from the room and he wished she hadn’t. A woman’s tears made him uncomfortable, but Madeline’s tears gnawed at his gut and his heart.

  He waited a few moments for someone to reprimand Gregory for his ill-timed confession or at the very least, comment on Madeline’s abrupt departure. But not a soul made a sound other than utensils scraping against plates and the occasional cleared throat.

  This was unacceptable. “Gregory, that was poorly done.”

  The boy’s face turned the color of a boiled beet. “I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings but I don’t want to live at Lingionine my whole life, like she does. If I don’t speak up, I’ll be her age and still never set foot off the estate. I want to travel like my brother.”

  Brother indeed. The conniving scoundrel had left Madeline with the responsibilities of the house, which included Gregory. “Do you think Madeline would not like to visit other places? Perhaps Italy or the Orient? Do you truly believe her greatest desire is to toil day after day trying to produce enough food to fill your belly while she wears her brother’s boots and gowns made from draperies? She has chosen responsibility whereas your brother has embraced the wanderlust of travel and self-indulgence. Where would you be, where would any of you be—” he pinned the three speechless women with a hard stare “—if not for Madeline’s kind heart and sense of righteousness?”

  Sarah let out a peep. Annabelle gasped. Regina merely stared. Gregory bowed his head and swiped at his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

  “I am not the one you need to apologize to. Find your sister and make amends.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When he’d gone, Douglas turned to the trio of sisters who were no more sisters than he was. “Well? Have you nothing to say?”

  Regina fidgeted with her napkin and looked away. Sarah smiled as though he had just recited a speech fit for the King’s ear. It was Lady Annabelle who fixed her gaze on him and uttered, “Those are the words of a man accustomed to being in charge. Who exactly are you, Mr. Schilling?”

  Chapter 12

  Gregory wanted to leave Lingionine. Oh, he had visited her in the library and mouthed the most courteous words of apology but that did not snuff out the yearning Madeline detected in her brother’s eyes when he spoke of India and Spain. She stared at the rows of books lining the shelves and recalled the hours they once spent exploring different lands, dreaming of different circumstances. She would be queen, ruler of a great empire. He would be a knight, possessed of unparalleled strength. In their imaginings, they were always together. She had thought it would be enough and it might have been had Simon Schilling not presented himself with an air of self-assuredness even Weston, for all of his travels, did not possess.

  But now, when Gregory reached the proper age, he would venture off as Weston had to explore the world as only a man could, without constraint or obligation. She had held such great hopes for the boy. He would be different than the others, but it appeared he would line up with all the other males to create one grand cluster of disappointment.

  Simon Schilling might not have placed the notion of abandoning Lingionine in Gregory’s brain, but he certainly had done little to dispel it. She had begun to think he might be different, might have a care for others. Might have a care for her.

  But he did not. Which disturbed her more, the fact that Gregory was already planning to leave or the fact that Simon Schilling was not the man she had begun to hope he might be? She did not know and that disturbed her most. She kicked off her shoes and flung her feet on the sofa. Oh, bother, why did people have to prove so infernally difficult? Why could they not have the sense and loyalty of an animal, like Matilda?

  She had not experienced such feelings of unrest since the days when her mother moped about the manor, fostering tepid smiles and gazing out the window countless times each day. Madeline knew what she waited for, or rather whom. Jonathan Munrove, husband, father, adventurer. He failed miserably at the first and second, but achieved great success at the third. The burden of cheering her mother and providing consolation over an absent husband fell on Madeline’s shoulders. She dreaded the responsibility but she dreaded watching her mother shrivel into a self-doubting woman even more. Men had the power to do that and in Madeline’s keen observation, they enjoyed that power far too often. Thus, the remedy was to prevent such affiliations.

  And Simon Schilling? Had he not wheedled his way past her first and second defenses and was he not slithering along the threshold of her third and final defense, like a chameleon, one moment the bumbling idiot, next the consummate philosopher? It made no sense. Before she had time to consider the reinforcement of her final defense, the library door opened and the man himself entered—proud, arrogant, and if the scowl on his face were an accurate indication, thoroughly annoyed. Madeline snatched The Model Wife from the sofa cushion and flipped it open.

  “‘Politeness dictates when two people are in the same room, conversation is in order.’” He plunked his large body beside her and rested an arm along the back of the sofa. Madeline scooted away and feigned great interest in a sentence on conversation and the proper method of engaging in such…

  “Ah,” he said, his voice silky soft, “the lady has taken a sudden interest in The Model Wife. Perhaps she yearns to become one.”

  She slammed the book shut. “I would almost rather speak with you than subscribe to this rubbish.”

  “Perhaps there is something to be learned, even from rubbish.”

  “Such as?” The man was beyond arrogant. Other more descriptive terms flitted through her head. Pompous. Annoying. Idiotic.

  He slid the book from her hands and flipped it open. “Moderation, for example. Or an even temper.” He nodded and turned a few pages. “You could use a pointer or two on temper. Hmmm. ‘The Model Wife should strive to maintain an even tone when engaging in discourse, and must never appear displeased, even if her displeasure is great.’”

  Madeline snatched the book from him and hid it behind her back. “Enough.”

  Simon crossed his arms over his chest and for a moment, her defenses slipped and she stared at the magnificence of that chest. She had knowledge of that chest, had been pressed against it, touched its solidness. If not for the man’s blasted headache last evening, she would have run her lips over that chest…

  “Madeline?”

  …kissed a nipple…stroked the springy…

  “Madeline?”

  “What?” She shook her head and beat down the heat seeping from her neck to her face.

  The crease on his forehead eased. “Would you like to converse?” His lips twitched. “Or did you have another method of communication in mind?”

  Drat, but the man knew what she’d been thinking. She hoisted her defenses in place. He could only suspect—he could prove nothing. She lifted her chin and eyed him as one would a distasteful bug. Pretending distaste was a very good line of defense; some said one of the best. “I have no desire to communicate with someone who has instilled wild ideas in a young boy’s head.”

  It was his turn for looks of distaste. His did not appear feigned. “Encouraging Gregory to
be a free thinker is not instilling wild ideas. He should have every opportunity open to him.”

  The man spoke of Gregory as though he had been at the boy’s bedside after the trampling, had applied warm cloths to his leg when it throbbed at night, had soothed him when he cried because he could not run like the other boys. This man knew nothing of her brother. “Who will help him when others make fun of his injury? When women turn their backs on him and jokes are told at his expense? Who will sit by his side and rub his leg with liniment when the pain becomes too great? Will you? Will anyone other than his family minister to him?”

  Simon regarded her with even greater distaste. “You carry little regard for your fellow man and even less for your brother’s abilities. You have no faith in either and that is the pity.”

  “That is not true.” Was it?

  He shrugged and stood. “From the moment I met you, I witnessed your low regard for the male gender, but I did not think you included your brother in that category.” He moved to the bookcase, his back to her as he continued to speak. “Now I wonder if you are so hateful toward the male species that you cannot imagine them serving any worthwhile function at all.” He paused. “Other than the rather necessary act of procreation, which you must wish did not require a man.”

  Who was he to spout off like some philosopher of humankind? She would have none of it. “It has been my experience that one should not speak of things of which one has no knowledge.”

  He pulled a book off the shelf, then another. “Agreed,” he said.

  He took the slight too lightly. “And as you have no knowledge of my brother or his needs, I would ask that in future, you refrain from planting notions in his head.”

  Simon yanked three more books from their shelves. “It is you, Madeline, who has no knowledge of your brother’s needs.” He swung around and advanced on her, stopping when he towered over her. “You categorize men as worthless creatures incapable of logical thought or action. You suffered unfortunate circumstances at the hands of your father and brother and therefore deem all men inadequate; Gregory included.” He leaned forward, so close the ferocious glint in his eyes pierced her. “I thought you different than other women, but you are not. You are much worse, for you are unwilling to render men the opportunity to prove your ill-conceived notions untrue and therefore condemn all men to suffer your prejudice.” He dumped the books in her lap. “Reading material to enlighten your closed mind.”

  Plato. Socrates. Descartes. “Hah. What do you know of these men?”

  “‘For a man to conquer himself is the first and noblest of victories.’”

  “You memorized that.”

  He inched forward until their noses were almost touching. His breath fell upon her face in a gentle rush as he recited, “‘The two operations of our understanding, intuition and deduction, on which alone we have said we must rely in the acquisition of knowledge.’”

  Show off. “Fine. You can quote Plato and Descartes.”

  Simon straightened. “There is an interesting section in chapter twelve of The Model Wife which speaks of temperance. You might find it enlightening.”

  She stared at him. “How exactly would you know that?” She longed to add, when you cannot read? When you depend on others to decipher for you? She need not speak the words because the twitch on the left side of his jaw told her he knew exactly what she meant.

  He studied her, eyes narrowed, jaw tensed, shoulders thrown back. Madeline looked away when the second minute ticked by. When twice as many passed and still he had not spoken, she could suffer the silence no longer. “Oh, all right. I should not have made that comment.”

  “What comment?”

  Was he going to make her announce it? The man was truly impossible. She rolled her eyes and snipped, “Your inability to read.”

  “Who said I cannot read?”

  “Simon. Please. You cannot read.”

  He drew in a deep breath and said, “‘The model wife shall eat small portions in order to maintain her girlish figure. She will not imbibe without her husband’s permission, and then only in—’”

  “Give that to me.” Madeline grabbed the book from him and thumbed through the pages in an effort to locate the quote, if there even was one. For all she knew, he conjured up the entire passage to annoy her. If that was his goal, he had succeeded.

  “Chapter three, page twenty-two. Third paragraph.” He continued, “‘The model wife never wears red. Or a sour face, should her husband dance with another…’”

  Madeline located the section he was reciting. Simon continued on, duplicating the words on the page with the grace and ease of a well-seasoned orator. Why, the man even paused in accordance with the punctuation! “Simon?”

  He halted his recitation and waited for her to speak further.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  He regarded her with an expression that chilled her and said, “Proving your narrow-mindedness. Goodnight, Madeline.”

  Chapter 13

  Douglas turned the page and stared at the Egyptian pyramids. When he grew disturbed or unsettled, he perused books on historic amazements such as the pyramids or the coliseum and his mood would shift to calm. If that proved unsuccessful, he delved into the laws of physics and mathematics to bring relief. Logic ruled Douglas’s universe as certainly as the laws of motion ruled Isaac Newton’s. But tonight, logic had run amok. Tonight the universe abounded with arcs and flashes of uncertainly and chaos which could be directly related to Madeline Munrove.

  What had made him taunt her? More important, why had he told her about his reading and recitation abilities? To prove he was not the imbecile she thought him? To what point? If she discovered his true identity she would not care if he could read in twelve languages—she would hate him. Why had he thought if she discovered his true identity instead of when? She would have to know the truth, eventually. But how to tell her? How to tell any of them? He did not want to harm Gregory or the three fugitives and he most certainly did not want to harm Madeline. Despite his current anger and unrest toward her, he still found her the most complicated, intriguing woman he had ever met.

  But some of her opinions were unfounded and untested. For example, her belief that men were inferior to women. Rubbish indeed. He flipped the page and began to read theories on how the Egyptians achieved the fifty-two degree angle of slope.

  When the knock on the door came a half hour later, Douglas almost did not hear it. He was well into the section on ramps and blocks and the questions regarding their use and had just determined Madeline possessed the mystery of a pyramid when the knock came. Soft, hesitant. What was the little witch up to now? Maybe she would pretend the demure miss until he opened the door and then she would slug him in the gut and have the last word.

  “Simon?”

  He considered ignoring her, logic dictated he should, but curiosity and a burn deep in his gut that he refused to acknowledge, made him respond. “Come in.” She could enter but damned if he would play the solicitous gentleman. He remained in bed, propped up with two pillows, bare-chested and pretending great interest in ramps. When he sensed she had reached the bed, he looked up and forgot about angles and blocks. Madeline faced him in a much too thin wrapper and high-necked nightgown tied at the throat.

  “Simon.” She wet her lips.

  He wished she hadn’t. Those lips made him think of kisses and tongues and all sorts of delicious maneuverings. He gripped the book tighter. “Yes?”

  More lip wetting. “I behaved badly this evening.” A hitched breath, a heavy sigh. “I fear the impending arrival of our visitor has quite unsettled me.”

  “Perhaps your fears are unfounded.” How had he gotten into this mess?

  Her eyes grew wide. “Perhaps they are worse than I can imagine.”

  He was not a blasted ogre, for God’s sake. He was just a man, a flesh and blood man with an insatiable desire for the woman standing before him in a prim nightgown and bare feet. “He is not a beast, Madel
ine. Whatever the man has or has not done, which you have yet to divulge, I would think true cruelty would have prevailed him to make his presence known some time ago and state his business.”

  That gave her pause. Actually, Douglas had arrived at Lingionine with the very purpose of claiming the estate, but that was before he met Madeline, or Gregory, or the three fugitives. Damn, but even Matilda pulled at his gut.

  Madeline crossed her arms over her middle, pulling the fabric to reveal the outline of her breasts. Perfect, tantalizing. How long was he to play the gentleman, discussing the arrival of Douglas Fontaine, which was in itself absurd, while Madeline stood an arm’s length from him, in his room, by his bed, with his shaft dancing and throbbing beneath a book on pyramids? Interesting irony there.

  “You should leave.” If you do not leave now, I may not be able to let you go.

  “Oh.” Her shoulders drooped. “I thought we might talk.”

  Talk. If she stayed, there would be no talking. There would only be doing and he would be the one doing it—inside of her, on top of her, between those delicious thighs. Oh, that damnable tongue wetting those lips again. Talk indeed. Douglas cleared his throat and looked away. “I am not in the mood to talk this evening.”

  “I see.” And then, “Are you still angry with me? I know you would not harm Gregory, honestly I do, but I am responsible for his safety.”

  “I am not angry with you.” I want you, and if you do not leave posthaste, I will have you. And you will regret it. He must have time to think and strategize about the inevitable arrival of Douglas Fontaine. If planned properly, Madeline might not pull out her brother’s pistol and take aim at his crotch. She might, if handled gently, only attempt to bash his head in with that blasted shovel she favored.

  “Hmm.” She raised a brow and put on that curious face he had come to recognize as the beginning of an inquisition.

  “I am tired.” Douglas stretched his arms above his head and feigned a yawn. The sooner she left the better for his flagging will power.