by Decca Price
“Parsons is a fortunate young woman to have such an interested mistress. It’s not every servant who is permitted the leisure to read,” Latimer said, and the use of Annie’s surname wasn’t lost on Claire.
Before long they were winding through the narrow medieval streets of Hereford. Edward had declined the bishop’s invitation to stay at the palace and took them instead to a small hotel. The spick-and-span Victoria Hotel faced busy Widemarsh Street, away from the dirt and noise of the train station, but Latimer knew from past stays it provided quiet for travelers after the day’s commerce subsided.
Claire allowed Edward to settle her in the lobby while he signed the register and instructed the clerk. He returned with two keys and they followed a porter up the stairs.
At the landing, Edward touched her elbow and drew her aside, letting the porter and Annie go on ahead.
“I’ve arranged for Annie to sleep in your room tonight,” he said, looking past her shoulder. Claire stifled a protest.
He peered into her face. “I expect you are tired and rather—” he hesitated. “Rather anxious, considering. I want our marriage to be happy—”
“Edward...” She reached up and gently placed her gloved hand on his cheek.
“Please, Claire, remember where we are and let me finish.” She withdrew her hand and let her arm drift to her side. “I know you will do your best to be a loving and dutiful wife, dearest. I think it’s best, therefore, that we take some time to get used to each other before you fulfill that part of your wifely obligation which is liable to be most distasteful.”
“I see.” Her lip quivered and she turned her head away.
His brow darkened. “I was correct. You are over-tired and consequently fretful. I’ll have our dinner sent up to your room as early as possible and, perhaps, if you feel up to it after, we can read aloud for a time before retiring.”
“Yes, Edward.”
“Come, my love, try to smile for me. This is a happy day for us. We can read some of your favorite Mr. Wordsworth, if you’d like.”
Claire feigned a smile and took his arm. “I’d like that, if you aren’t too tired as well. I mustn’t always be thinking about myself now.”
He gave her hand a pat. “That’s the spirit, dear.”
Claire had never traveled north. Once settled in their first-class carriage, she found the clackety-clack rocking of the car soothing despite her aching head, for she had slept badly and been ill at breakfast. As they journeyed through the Severn Valley and over the Malvern Hills, she took as much pleasure from watching Annie trying to spy famous landmarks as she did from seeing the landscape flow by their window.
More than once, she caught Edward watching her over the Bradshaw’s he professed to be studying.
“What is it?” she asked after the third or fourth time.
“I am marveling at how God has blessed me,” he said matter-of-factly. “Only a few months ago, I was a lonely bachelor and then you came to Abbot Pyon and bewitched me.”
“Oh, Edward, that hardly seems the right word. It makes me sound like the Witch of Endor or something. She didn’t end well.”
“Charmed, then. Stole into my heart, like a fairy invading my dreams.” He nodded toward Annie, practically perched on the windowsill. Claire caught the hint.
“Annie, that is, Parsons,” she said in a low voice in Annie’s ear. “Please change places with Mr. Latimer.” The girl grinned from ear to ear as she scrambled to the other side of the carriage and Latimer moved over to sit next to Claire. He took her hand and went back to his reading while Claire resumed alternately watching her maid and the ribbon of green unspooling outside the window.
They smelled Birmingham, shut the window and exclaimed over the blackened sky long before the train pulled into the station there. Steam powered the many industries of the midland city, with “scarcely a street being without its manufactory and steam engine,” Bradshaw’s proclaimed. The guide neglected to mention, however, the tons of coal that powered the steam and the resultant soot. The cloud seemed to follow them all the way to Manchester, for “Cottonopolis,” like its sister city to the south, ran on steam.
They arrived at Windermere, tired and begrimed, in time for another spectacular sunset. They could see the vast placid lake from the station, and so excited was Annie to drink in the sight that Claire practically had to restrain her. Fortunately, Edward was busy marshaling their baggage and transport to the small private hotel he had booked and didn’t notice Annie’s agitation. Claire knew already that he wouldn’t approve.
The Swan, a whitewashed cottage nestled among a stand of trees near the lakeside, was small compared to the hotels in Windermere proper, but Claire thought it just right for a honeymoon stay. They’d be sharing the premises with a pair of student hikers and an older married couple from Ely. Edward had taken a suite of rooms for them, however, so they’d have all the privacy they wanted.
Every room provided an unbroken view of water and mountains. It was a view Claire would be thoroughly weary of by the time they returned to Oak Grove.
“Edward?” Claire said more sharply than she intended when she saw her husband directing the porter to take Annie’s bag into Claire’s room. Claire closed the door on Annie and stood with her hand on the knob behind her, effectively trapping the girl on the other side. “Edward, why doesn’t Parsons have her own room downstairs with the other servants?”
“I didn’t want you to be alone at night, dearest.”
“But Edward! I hardly know what to say.” Claire bit her lip and gazed out at the blue water. “This is our honeymoon. Won’t it be awkward...?”
Latimer stood close to her and placed his hands on her shoulders so that she was forced to meet his eyes.
“Surely you aren’t expecting us to begin our conjugal life together in a public hotel?” His evident shock flustered her.
“No, no, of course not, if that’s how you feel.” She was stammering now. “I don’t know what you expect, how I should, what...”
“I’ll tell you when it’s time, Claire. You don’t have to worry yourself.”
If that weren’t bad enough, nearly every fine day, Latimer set out early to hike, sometimes not returning until night had fallen. A woman can read only so much poetry in a day, Claire thought to herself, slamming the volume of Wordsworth down on the fourth day.
“Annie!” she called, going to fetch her hat. “Annie, we’re going for a walk. And bring my sketching things.”
When Latimer returned that evening, Claire was giving Annie a drawing lesson, going over the girl’s tentative pencil marks with a black crayon, showing her how to strengthen some lines and reposition others for a more effective rendering. Annie jumped up and took his hat away while he settled into the chair the girl had vacated.
“You’re asking for trouble there,” he remarked without preamble. “You’re filling her head with ideas and you’ll make her dissatisfied.”
“She’s so bright, Edward! She’ll go back to her regular schooling once we’re home and I wouldn’t be sad to give her up if she qualified to enroll in Simmie’s school.”
“And then what? She won’t fit in anywhere and no local lad will want to marry her. I wish you to remember yourself. You’re my wife now and shouldn’t be so familiar with your inferiors.” He put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer for a kiss.
Another two days had passed before Claire realized Edward seemed to be waiting for something. They toured Lake Windermere on one of the steam-powered pleasure boats that plied its waters, picnicked on the shore, visited a few shops in the town center. He paid her every attention a new bride could wish. But every time they returned to the Swan, he went immediately to the desk and asked for their mail. There was nothing until the start of their second week, when Latimer received a letter.
He tore it open, scanned it quickly, then folded it deliberately and placed it in his coat pocket. His lips were white.
“Is something wrong?” Claire asked.
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“An ill friend. I’m afraid I must go away tomorrow and I’ll be gone overnight. In Carlisle,” he said before she could ask.
“I’m so sorry. Can I help? Would you like me to come? Is there a woman there?”
“There’s no need. He’s the crotchety scholar type who can’t abide a woman in his house - except for his cook, his housekeeper and the maid. Come, let’s take a stroll by the lake before tea. The light this time of day is so fine, and it won’t long before we’re back in Oak Grove.”
Latimer left before dawn, so Claire again was alone with Annie when nausea overtook her shortly after breakfast. It was happening more frequently, but since it subsided as the day wore on, Claire ignored it as best she could.
“I think I’m going to be glad to be home,” she said to the girl, sipping cautiously at a glass of water. “I’m never ill. It must be something in this place that doesn’t agree with me, the food or—”
She eyed the glass dubiously and set it down. “Or the water.
“Beggin’ your pardon, miss,” Annie said, not noticing her slip. “There’s a herb my ma and sisters use to make a tea that settles their stummachs when they’re feelin’ poorly. I could ask at the chemists in town.”
“An herb?”
Annie twisted her hands into her apron. “Well, it’s mostly dried mint, with some rosehips and strawberry leaf mixed in. They say it’s a good idea to eat some dry toast before you get out of bed, too, and to not let your stummach get too empty. And it passes after the first few weeks...”
Claire peered suspiciously at Annie. “What are you trying to say?”
“If you haven’t told Mr. Latimer yet, I can keep the secret, miss,” Annie said. The corners of her mouth quivered as she tried to hold back a smile. “You’ll be looking forward to a little stranger in the house, am I right?”
“Annie, you mustn’t say that! It’s not possible. It's impossible!” Claire went white as a sheet and almost missed the sofa when she sank back to sit.
“It’s all right, miss. The banns was read proper and you’re a married lady. That’s all that counts. Anyone could see Mr. Latimer was right fond of you almost from the first week, and lots of people in the village figured you’d end up at the altar sooner or later, what with all the time he spent with you.”
“Stop, Annie!” Claire shouted. “Just stop. Not another word!” She started giggling and hiccupping so violently she frightened Annie and the girl grabbed up the glass Claire had been sipping from and threw the water on her mistress. It did the trick.
“Come here, Annie,” a dripping, calmer Claire said, holding out her arms. “I’m sorry. It’s just the shock. I didn’t realize. How stupid I’ve been.”
Annie averted her eyes and smoothed her hands down her apron. “I’d best get you dry, Missus Latimer. I doan know what I was thinkin’, ta douse you like that.”
Claire followed Annie into the bedroom, her lips pressed together to hold back the words ready to burst forth. If only Simmie were here, Claire thought. But what could I tell her? What could she do?
She numbly cooperated as the girl unfastened her bodice and helped her into a dry one. She stared into the mirror without seeing as the abnormally silent Annie redid her hair.
“Annie?” she said as the girl carefully placed the last hairpin. Claire raised her head and two pairs of worried eyes met in the mirror. “Mr. Latimer...”
“I’ll be careful not to say nothin’ until you say, Miss. I’ll do whatever you want. Always.”
Annie’s fierce emphasis on the “always” tugged at Claire’s heart. Her marriage was ruined before it started, she realized, and while she appreciated Annie’s loyalty, it was unlikely she could repay it. A dark road lay before her and she had no right to ask this innocent girl—or anyone—to travel it with her.
Chapter 16
Edward Latimer barely made the train to Liverpool—for despite what he had told Claire, he was bound for that busy port city. With most mid-week travelers heading away from the sooty industrial towns to begin long-anticipated holidays in clean light and air, he had a compartment to himself. Secure in his privacy, he surrendered himself to thoughts kept at bay since their arrival in Windermere.
He had spent as much time as possible away from Claire, but the punishing effort he put into his rugged marches over the fells distracted him only during the day. Sheer physical exhaustion helped him control his urges at night, but sleep brought evil visions rather than the oblivion he prayed for.
Simply being near Claire aroused him. The light touch of her hand on his, the tender way she spoke his name, stirred his desire. More than once at nightfall, he had been on the brink of sending Annie down to the servants’ area to sleep. But Claire was his wife now, sealed to him with God’s and the bishop’s blessing, not a common street trollop to be used when convenient. He was determined to keep their marriage bed pure and defile neither it, nor her, until he could control his lust.
But she was becoming restless, pale and nervy. Her appetite was off. Her health suffered from his abstinence. He knew he was wrong to deprive her of her conjugal rights—she was already well into her childbearing years and it was a wonder she was still so robust and blooming. Unsatisfied, her maternal drive would damage her womb and make it more difficult for her to conceive and remain healthy.
As the train rattled on toward the west, he stared out the window and brooded, the book on his lap untouched. The marriage had seemed beneficial for them both, but now the hint of a doubt nagged at him. The married lifestyle suited him, to be sure. To be master of a household with all that comprised—dependents, servants, responsibility—conferred gravitas on a man. A bachelor, no matter what his position in life, always struck others as somehow insubstantial and pitiable, if not peculiar, as he aged.
But to be married was another matter entirely. To have a woman a constant presence in his life until death could undo him. Especially if he was not indifferent to the woman. If he were to drop his guard, Claire would insinuate herself his deepest secrets.
As he did every day, he thought of Lucy with a pang. If only she had obeyed, so many other things in his life would remain unaltered. Dear Lucy had been content to build her world around him, as he did around her. After their parents’ deaths, the two of them took care of one another. With Lucy’s steadying hand in his, he wouldn’t have fallen to the temptation of Claire or her wealth. Montfort would still be his friend. Montfort’s brother, George, would still be alive. Carter, too. So much heartache, so much catastrophe, caused by one frail woman!
The braking train lurched as it approached the descent to the station, jolting him back into the present. He swung his Gladstone down from the shelf overhead, tucked his book inside, then reached into his pocket. The letter was gone -- but to forget its contents was impossible.
Come if you can. She was here but someone got here before me. The Ship and Mitre, King’s Road.
Ordinarily, Latimer would have walked the two miles to the pub, but after depositing his bag at the station hotel, he hailed a cab. Tapping his fingers against the window ledge as the cabbie navigated the bustling noonday streets, he vacillated between impatience and anxiety. What if his hired agent was wrong? What if this were another wild goose chase?
A man resembling an ordinary dockworker waited for him outside the small pub.
“No, I don’t want to go in.” Latimer waved him away as he turned toward the entrance. “Take me to the place.”
The man’s accent was local but not rough. “There’s a boarding house in Balliol Road. The landlady is expecting you.”
“You told her my name?”
“Do you take me for stupid? I know what you’re paying me for. She expects to speak with a man seeking a lost relation. That’s all she knows and all she wants to know.”
They walked away from the pub and started up the street away from the docks.
“Did she leave anything behind, anything at all?”
“She claims the other gentleman t
ook the lady’s things away with him.”
“When?”
“A month or two ago, she says.”
“Did he give a name?”
“Yeah. He said his name was Carter.”
Latimer stopped dead in the street.
“He claimed he was Josiah Carter?”
“Didn’t give a first name. Just said his name was Carter and the lady sent him. Since nobody else’ed been asking, he looked all right, and the lady said she’d be sending for her trunk and all, the landlady gave them up.”
“Blast! What a blithering fool!”
The landlady looked sharp enough, though, and she answered his questions without wasting words. She stood squarely in the doorway of her nondescript establishment, a substantial figure in faded black bombazine and a grease-spotted apron, as if she expected the two men to shove past her and steal the meat right out of the pot in the kitchen. She eyed Latimer’s black coat and white cravat and the lines around her mouth relaxed only slightly.
No, the gentleman hadn’t sent the trunk on to another address, he’d taken it with him. It was small. Of course she’d never looked in it! No, the lady hadn’t mentioned any names or where she was going when she left. ‘Bout Whitsun, that was. The lady kept to herself. She didn’t talk much, but anyone could tell she were from somewheres else. But she weren’t Irish. From the south, mebbe. Yes, she’d recognize the man again if she saw him. He was quality, had a thin red scar running across his cheek. He’d given her a quid “for her trouble.”
She pocketed the shilling Latimer gave her and shut the door on them with a solid thud.
“”I’ll send a cheque to settle my account,” he said tersely to the man as he hailed a passing cab. “I won’t be needing your services any further.”
He directed the cab to take him back to his hotel, but instead of going inside, he paid his fare and began to walk. He could be back in Windermere with Claire by nightfall, but he needed to think. He had given no sign to his agent that he recognized the man the landlady described, but there was no question it was Rhys. Damn the man for not leaving well enough alone. Latimer had the power to destroy him and thought he’d made that message clear. Why else would Montfort have gone abroad? Now here he was, interfering. Where was he now? What had he learned? What was in that trunk?
