Tempest of the Heart

by Jocelyn Kirk

  One morning in late March, the post brought a letter from Aleta. My younger sister was lazy about writing, so I opened the letter expecting it to contain news of something important enough for her to sharpen her quill. These were the contents:

  My dear Cassandra,

  I have news that will startle you. About two months ago, Mr. Bartholomew Loch returned to the parsonage to stay a time with his cousin Silas. Lila was ill with a fever that was lingering on, so my mother sent Rosamund to stay at the parsonage to assist her.

  There was nothing in that to cause anyone surprise, but a week ago, Mr. B. Loch came to call on my father. It seems he had fallen in love with Rosamund and was determined to marry her! He came to ask my father’s permission!

  To say we were stunned is a great understatement! Rosamund was wellborn, but she is a lady’s maid! She should have been beneath his notice, and how she could have attracted him with her silent demeanor is beyond my comprehension!

  But the shock did not end there. Rosamund refused Bart’s proposal. She told my father that Mr. Loch is a man not to be trusted, and she could never marry him.

  There’s for you! What do you think of all that? I hope you are enjoying London. I am quite jealous!

  Your devoted sister,

  Aleta

  My rage was as intense as it was unreasonable. Not only had Rosamund destroyed my chance of happiness with Bartholomew, but she had lured him into imagining himself in love with her! No doubt her bashful glances and modest demeanor had been the means of entrapment…but then she had refused to marry him! I could see these circumstances in only one light, as a mean-spirited attempt to cause me pain.

  I was beautiful, wealthy, educated, sophisticated—but Bartholomew Loch preferred Rosamund! He loved Rosamund, the creeping mouse, who spent her days at North Commons fetching and carrying for my lazy mother and sister.

  I took out my anger on my husband, and the rift between us deepened. Disdaining my household duties, I threw myself into my preordained position as a society hostess. My guests were the cream of the ton, and every London publication printed articles about my dinners and parties. The press referred to me as “the divine Mrs. Stanfield.”

  One morning, the butler told me that a gentleman had left his card. I took it from his gloved hand, glanced at it, and froze at the name: Mr. Bartholomew Loch! There was a note on the back saying he was in town and intended to visit.

  I prepared myself for this visit, and when it occurred, I behaved very well. Bart called when Mr. Stanfield was at home, and we had tea in the Rose Parlor. To my shock, he brought forward his pursuit of Rosamund—his hopes and fears, his efforts and challenges, and her continual refusal—without hesitation or scruple. This, although painful, gave me some satisfaction. The infamous bounder Bartholomew Loch had a broken heart!

  I thought and hoped that this would be the last I saw of him, but it was not to be. The next time he called, Mr. Stanfield was out. Bart paced the room in agitation. I asked him how his suit was faring, and he declared that he might have found himself mistaken in his pursuit of Rosamund. My foolish heart beat at these words!

  Bart confessed to being unable to subdue his attraction to me. “I believed when you wed Stanfield, my fever would die away, but it has not. If Rosamund were not keeping me in this hellish suspense, perhaps I would not find myself constantly thinking of Cassandra Tenley.”

  I was scornful. “You had every opportunity to pursue Cassandra Tenley, sir, but now I am Mrs. Stanfield. Go away and continue chasing after Rosamund; she cannot hold out much longer.”

  Bart stared at me. He was standing and I rested on a settee, but I rose to open the door of the parlor and dismiss him. I was sick of Bartholomew Loch and his mad addiction to Rosamund. Did I love him? Yes, but anger and humiliation had filled my mind at that moment and pushed love away.

  Bart crossed the room rapidly, and before I could gasp with surprise, I was in his arms and he was kissing me. I tried to pull away, but he held me fast, and his kiss filled me with such desire I felt weak and had to cling to him to keep from falling. He pushed me onto the settee and thrust his body against mine. I gasped and shuddered as his groping hands seized my breasts and his searching lips found the sensitive places in my neck. I could not repel him; it was impossible. My desire for him, withheld for so long, trampled my sense of propriety and duty to my husband. I did not care; I was wild for him.

  I jerked as the unmistakable sound of someone arriving reached my ears. Mr. Stanfield! I pushed Bart away, crying, “Get out! Quickly! No, that door! Hurry!”

  I ran from the parlor by another door and followed the servants’ stairway to an upper floor. Running into my chamber, I hastily straightened my hair and frock. I cast about for a book, and when Mr. Stanfield tapped at the door and entered, I placidly greeted him with a smile, although my heart was racing.

  The remainder of that day and evening was a form of hell. Mr. Stanfield partook of his rights as a husband, although the act seemed to afford him little pleasure. When I was finally quit of him, I had my maid prepare a bath, and I soaked in the hot water and scrubbed myself until every vestige of my husband was washed away. I knew then and there that I could no longer live with him. I sat in the tub of steaming water and cried. I did not know what to do. A woman in my stratum of society did not leave her husband.

  The next morning while we were at breakfast, Mr. Stanfield received a letter from his mother. The dowager was in Bath, and it was my sincere hope she would remain there and not spend part of the winter in London. She wrote that she had been rather ill for a few days and wanted her son to spend a week in Bath with her. Charles wished me to accompany him, but I would have no part of the scheme. We quarreled, but he could not prevail, and I watched in satisfaction as he stepped into his carriage the next morning and began his journey to Bath with no other company than his man. As soon as he left, I felt I could breathe again. I settled in the Rose Parlor to consider my situation and form a plan to escape it.

  Morning callers interrupted my thoughts. The Marchioness Berwick-Wright and her daughter, Lady Jemima Whitton, came to issue an invitation to their annual charity ball. I put on my best smile and accepted on behalf of my husband and myself. Next came the Misses Laycroft, insipid as always. When they were moving to depart, Lady Casselby arrived and invited me to dinner.

  I smiled and said what was proper. Finally, I was alone. Considering no longer what I should do about my unhappy marriage, I stepped upstairs to my chamber. Instead of calling my maid, I pulled forth a valise and threw clothes and jewelry into it. I did not know where I was going; I only knew I must leave my husband’s house.

  When my valise was packed, I hid it under my bed. I wanted no inquisitive servants asking me questions. I had decided on a course of action: I would take the public coach to North Commons Abbey and throw myself on the mercy of my father, Sir Winslow Tenley. He could deal with Mr. Stanfield. Sir Winslow could do anything he set his mind to, and he could extricate me from my marriage, if I could convince him it was impossible for me to live longer with my husband.

  I intended to leave at night after Crowley had locked the house and the servants were abed. At eleven, the house was quiet enough to attempt my escape. Just as I pulled my valise out of hiding, a loud knock shattered the silence. I waited, my heart beating. Another knock sounded, followed by Crowley’s footsteps as he headed toward the door. The faint sound of voices reached me. The stairs creaked as someone climbed upward. I pushed my valise back under the bed.

  Crowley knocked on my chamber door. When I opened the door, he said, “Madam, Mr. Loch has come. He said he has an urgent message from your sister and must see you.”

  “Pray tell him I will be down in a moment.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  “And, Crowley, you may go to bed. I will see Mr. Loch out.”

  “Thank you, madam.”

  My heart pounded and flutterings skittered all through my body as I ran downstairs. It was as if I knew what w
ould happen, and my complicity had been preordained. I entered the small receiving parlor and shut the door. Bart ran to me and clutched me in his arms, but I pushed him away.

  “Come with me,” I whispered. “Hurry.”

  We tiptoed up the stairs to my chamber. I locked the door, and we fell upon each other like two starving persons devouring a feast. Bart pushed me onto the bed and tore off his jacket and cravat. A sudden jolt of fear shot through me. I could not commit such a travesty! Crying out in shame and frustration, I scrambled off the bed and ran out of the room. I locked myself in my dressing room until I heard footsteps retreat and the front door slam.

  I hurried to my chamber and pulled my valise from hiding. Soft footsteps startled me, and I swung about with a gasp to see Bart enter the room.

  “What are you doing here? I heard you leave!”

  He smiled. “You heard footsteps and a door slam.”

  I stared in horror at his smirking face. “Bart, you must leave. I will not be any man’s mistress. I am not a harlot to be used and thrown aside.”

  He shrugged. “As you wish. I have no need to force a woman. But tell me: why do you have a packed valise? Where are you going?”

  “North Commons Abbey,” I replied, with determination in my voice. “And I will not return.”

  He stared at me, his saucy smile fading. “Cassandra, think of what you are doing. If you leave Stanfield, society will shun you.”

  Heat surged into my face, and my voice quavered. “I cannot stay with him. You have no idea of the horror I experience when he visits my chamber.”

  He shrugged. “A wife’s duty. A fair exchange for his name and money, is it not?”

  I clenched my hands together to keep from slapping him. “You had better go, Bart. You care nothing for me, and I am not such a fool as to allow you to use me for your wicked pleasures.”

  Instead of leaving, he sat on the bed. “I should have married you before you threw yourself away on Stanfield!”

  “Yes, but you did not.”

  He sighed. “I was obliged to wait until some business interests had brought in some cash resources. But you left North Commons with your husband.”

  “You might have informed me of your intentions!”

  “Yes, but I was angry at your family and determined to forget all of you. Once you had gone, your father could make no objection to my being in the neighborhood, and so I immediately wrote my cousin Silas and told him to expect me. When I arrived at the parsonage, I found Rosamund living there to nurse your sister. We were thrown together every day, and she…I don’t know how to explain…”

  I laughed bitterly. “You wanted to flirt with her and make her fall in love with you! But she turned the tables, did she not?”

  “She did,” he replied. “I want her for a wife. But I want you also.”

  “How humorous!” I cried. “In fact, my dear Bart, you cannot have either of us! She has repelled your every attempt to attach her, and I am married!”

  He took me in his arms. “Come away with me,” he whispered. “When Stanfield learns the truth, he will divorce you, and then we can wed.”

  I wanted this man with every fiber of my being. “Do you promise to wed me?” I asked, peering into his face.

  He lowered his lips to my neck and kissed me.

  With difficulty, I pushed him away. “Do you promise?”

  He stepped away and donned his coat. He did not look at me when he answered, but I foolishly believed his words. “I promise.”

  We crept down the stairs and exited the house. I paused and looked up at the star-filled sky. A great white moon hung over the city, and the streets were hushed.

  In rapture, I breathed in the still night air. I was free!

  Chapter Three

  My thoughts jumped back to the present. I was once again in Caemre Cottage, and Lila stood before me, her head tilted and eyebrows raised.

  “I beg your pardon, Lila. What did you say?”

  “What news from Rosamund?”

  “Oh! My mind wandered, and I have not yet read her letters.”

  Lila left the room, and I tore open the earlier-dated envelope. Rosamund had written a brief letter, scarcely more than a note. These were the contents:

  My dearest Mrs. Stanfield,

  This letter will be brief, for I cannot stay long from your mother. She is in a state of great nervousness and fear, for your brother Frederick is unwell. The fever he suffered a year ago has come back upon him. We are all frightened.

  I am doing my best to sustain your mother’s hopes and spirits, but she has been cast down since Sir Winslow set up the establishment for you in Wales. She cried this morning and said she could not bear to lose another child. The butler and I are giving Sir Winslow and Miss Aleta every comfort, and I am spending every moment with your poor mother.

  I hope you and Mrs. Loch are well. I will write again as soon as I have more information. Your father has summoned a team of London doctors, and there is hope that their treatments will improve Mr. Frederick Tenley’s condition.

  With deep respect,

  Rosamund Quinn

  Frederick ill! Perhaps already dead! I fetched breath to call Lila but hesitated. The other letter…I must know the worst.

  With a rapidly beating heart, I slit open the letter.

  My hand trembled as I unfolded the letter, smoothed it, and forced myself to glance at the first line. The breath I had been holding released itself as I read the beginning.

  My dearest Mrs. Stanfield,

  Let me allay your fears immediately; Frederick is better. The London physicians are staying at North Commons for the present, but they expect him to make a full recovery.

  I have another matter to relay to you, and although it may be painful for you to read, duty requires me to convey it.

  You will remember that Mr. Bartholomew Loch’s sister, Miss Bettina Loch, was staying here as Miss Aleta’s guest during the fracas between you and Sir Winslow that resulted in your having to relocate to Wales. As I told you in an earlier letter, she quietly removed herself from North Commons and returned to her uncle’s house in London, once it became clear that Sir Winslow blamed her brother for your desertion of Mr. Stanfield. It was clear to Miss Loch—and all of us—that no further friendship could exist between her and your family. Poor Frederick was the sufferer, for he was forced to accept his father’s command to desist in his pursuit of Miss Loch. (Perhaps you were not aware that he had fallen in love with her.)

  This was the situation as it has existed for several months; but yesterday I had a most unexpected summons—from Miss Loch. She sent a note to inform me she was staying at the parsonage for a few days. An old schoolfellow of hers, Miss Josephine Pipp, now Mrs. Appleton, had married the new vicar, so Miss Loch had no difficulty, apparently, in securing an invitation. She wrote that she needed to see me on an important matter, so as soon as I could, I hastened there, although I was dreading an interview with her. She has always blamed me for being unwilling to marry her brother; perhaps I am self-deluded, but I cannot learn to feel that I should have married him against my own wishes!

  Miss Loch and Mrs. Appleton were alone when I arrived, for Vicar Appleton was in Bath for a week. Mrs. Appleton greeted me in a friendly manner and poured tea.

  Miss Loch was more subdued than I had ever seen her. She appeared very much chastened by the events of the past year. Her rejection of Frederick’s pursuit because he was not the elder son and was to become a clergyman had been more of a game than a serious refusal—in my opinion—and she perhaps realized that because of her brother’s actions, she had lost the man she truly loved and would have accepted after toying with his affections for a time.

  She did not sport with my curiosity for long. I will not repeat her exact words, but the gist is that she has not heard from Bartholomew in three months and she cannot locate him! She is sincerely worried; Bartholomew, for all his faults, is fond of his sister, and it is odd that he has neither written nor visited fo
r such a long time.

  Naturally, Miss Loch was anxious to know if I had heard from him. I could not satisfy her on that head, for I knew nothing of him. They begged me to contact you, Mrs. Stanfield, to ascertain any knowledge you might have of his whereabouts, and although I did not want to raise such a painful subject with you, I could not refuse.

  If Bart has contacted you, please write and inform me. As always, send your letter under cover to the North Commons housekeeper. I know in time Sir Winslow will relent and at least allow your mother and brother and me to correspond with you openly; but at this juncture, his anger, combined with his anxiety at Frederick’s situation, is rendering him unable to bend. I have a great deal of shame and guilt at deceiving him by my correspondence with you, but I cannot feel otherwise than that you were unfairly treated and my greater duty is to give you what small comfort I can.

  Rosamund

  I tossed Rosamund’s letter aside and leaned back in my chair. My gaze was toward the window with its view of the lane, but I saw nothing. Bart out of touch with his sister! I could easily conjecture that she would be anxious. For my part, I would be happy to learn he was dead!

  My thoughts flew back to that night we fled my husband’s house. My euphoria had not lasted long. When Bart’s carriage reached the outskirts of London, he pulled up before an inn.

  “Why are we stopping?” I asked.

  I could see Bart’s face in the wavering light from the carriage lamps. His eyes were as gray and cold as the North Sea.

  “You will stay in this inn tonight, Cassandra, and tomorrow you will ride post back to your husband’s house or to North Commons, whichever you prefer. I cannot marry you because my heart is still Rosamund’s and always will be. It’s best you go back to Stanfield.”