The Brides of London, page 13
The letter had to be a joke.
Someone found out about her trying to find a husband or maybe the baron liked games. Why hadn’t she seen this before she struggled to pen three paragraphs to his last letter?
She started to pace, back and forth, patio tile, to parlor hardwoods, to cobblestones. A breeze swept over the fields, bringing inside a stronger scent of rain. The cooler wind stung her freshly chewed lip. She paced back into the parlor, picked up the letter, and crumpled the foolscap within her palm. This baron was playing games. Nothing was worse than a man who played games or who betrayed one’s trust.
She should’ve stuck with the squire. His offer looked better and better. This fine-thinking rhymer offered nothing for her peace.
No. Not a thing. She lowered her head and waited for her pulse to slow, her thoughts to order. This mystery man did offer something. He’d give her a name that was as honorable as Mathew’s and the hope that someone who asked such challenging questions would be a strong champion for Philip.
She wiped a horrible tear from her eye. Why was she crying? She didn’t know this man, but she had foolishly put her hopes in him. She wanted someone stronger than Lester, than Ewan and all the Fitzwilliams. Then she wouldn’t have to be strong all the time.
Theodosia had R’s, big ones, ones that she lived with every day, ones she couldn’t right. If she dared to pen one, would the baron use it to control her like Lester, like everyone else did?
Caged in her skin, she started to run. Anger at this new suitor boiled inside. She had labored long, writing and rewriting, surviving two Ester edits for the baron, being as transparent as she could about motherhood without saying the words—my baby is almost deaf. And it’s my fault.
It hadn’t been enough.
Her greatest regret was hurting Philip.
His deafness was her fault. All caused by her foolishness and pride. Theodosia’s fingers shook. Her stomach churned as if she’d vomit. She needed peace. She needed to think. She needed to feel safe, like when Mathew had lived, or the night Ewan had sheltered her in the storm.
Not caring about her slippers or the hem of her dark mourning skirt, she trudged deeper into the field. The satin became damp in the fresh mud, but she didn’t care. She stuck the paper against her heart and kept moving—all while the baron’s reply repeated in her head.
Are you the woman I seek? If you are, tell me your greatest regret. Into your life, let me peek.
He toyed with her. Why? What was to gain from the baron laughing at her pain?
She stopped and looked up into the blue-gray sky. What if sharing the deepest part of her heart was the price to pay to gain a champion?
Was the cost too high or was her pride too much?
She was sweating, caught between crying and shouting.
Mathew had challenged her and so had Ewan, in different ways, but each had always made her think. Maybe this frustration was another way to challenge her. She swiped at her eyes, mopped at her temples. If the baron was moved at all by her letter, he would make a much better match than the dry squire.
Crumbling the paper, she stuffed it in her pocket. A wife beyond reproach. Could she ever be that woman, to any man? Mathew had understood her past, well, the parts she’d shared. Would he have counted her as beyond reproach?
Theodosia couldn’t think anymore. She trudged deeper into the fields. Before she knew it, she was waist deep in lavender and couldn’t move any further. Why was she tormenting herself? She should accept the squire. He had been the second response to her newspaper advertisement. All the lies, the regrets of the past would be put away if she married him. She rubbed at her arms, raised her face to the storm clouds. “I give up.”
Horse’s hooves pounded from behind.
She whirled to see who was coming toward her. With a blink, it was six years ago, and it was Mathew riding out to inspect his fields. He’d caught Theodosia picking flowers, stealing them, the week prior, but had then given his permission for her to take from his fields. He’d even had baskets waiting for her to carry away more than she could wrap in her skirt. It had been so welcome and unexpected. The Fitzwilliams had banned her from their land, but she’d had to earn some money to eat. And the low pain from the swell in her gut, the little one, had needed food, too.
She blinked again and was back in the present. She choked from the dust the rider kicked up as his mount almost trampled her.
The horse neighed like thunder. She was paralyzed in a cloud of horse sweat and dirt.
Laughing, the thick man jumped down and pulled tight on the reins, forcing the horse to obey. “You don’t frighten easily, do you, Mrs. Cecil.”
It wasn’t Mathew’s ghost but a very lively Lester hovering over her.
But she was scared. She shoved her shaking fingers into her pockets. All she could muster was, “Hello, Lester.”
He leaned to the side and pushed his top hat back on his coal-black head. His narrow, pale eyes roamed as he gloated. “You do look a little scared.”
Righting the hair starting to tumble down her back, she had to pretend to be strong. “You could’ve killed me. Was that your point?”
“Come on, boy.” Lester tugged his silver horse. The horse neighed violently but submitted.
A moment of sympathy for the stallion swept over her. “I’m owed an apology and an explanation.”
He tipped his brim. “I like to inspect what’s mine, Mrs. Cecil. What are you doing so far from Tradenwood?”
She put a hand to her hip and lifted her chin. “Like you said. I am inspecting what is mine.”
He chuckled in his typical menacing way, full throated and deep. “Well, our land. Yours, mine, and that mulatto of Cecil’s—one big happy family.”
Gall rising, she continued to glare at him. “Is there something you wanted?”
He grabbed her hand and clamped his hard palm about it. “There are many things I want from you, but for now I will settle for cooperation. Have the Fitzwilliams been bothering you?”
Lester had never showed concern for her before. And he couldn’t know what Ewan planned with his play. Could he? She squinted at him. “Why do you ask?”
“They are a tricky lot, land grabbers. They may try to confuse you into signing things. When in truth, it’s all to get their mitts on this place.”
She wanted to say she read very well now, but it might be better to let Lester underestimate her abilities. “They haven’t sent any new offers.”
“Good. You’d show me, wouldn’t you? I know I’ve been boorish to you, Theodosia, but viewing you now with the sun dancing upon you, I can see why Cecil took you as his mistress. You are built well. Your voice is pleasant. Yes. I see your appeal.”
If this was a compliment, the squire had certainly run on with his praise, that is, with his mouth closed. “Thank you.” That was all she could muster without laughing or spitting. It wasn’t safe to engage the bull in a field alone. “I’m going back to the house. Continue riding like a mad person.”
She turned away, but he seized both her hands. His rough gloves chaffed her palms, as he kissed each. After a nod, he jumped onto his horse. “Let me know what they are about, Mrs. Cecil. We keep this farm productive, we can own all the land. Land is what matters, and we should work together to win. Working together will be more pleasant. Don’t make me an enemy. It won’t do well for Philip, to see us at odds. Perhaps, the three of us should go away on my trip—the one that you set up but won’t go on with me. He can help celebrate our wedding.”
“I haven’t agreed to marry you.”
“Then perhaps I’ll take the boy all by myself. It is my right to do so. In Holland, he will like looking at the bulbs, Of course, if he can keep up… Hate for him to fall, fall behind on my trip.”
A tremor went up her spine, but she willed herself to stay put, not shaking. “Don’t—Don’t threaten him. Or me. Cecil wouldn’t appreciate that.”
“He’s gone, Theodosia. Buried in the family crypt. I’ve been patient, but that all ends at the end of the month with your honorable time of mourning. Tell the boy I asked about him.”
Would he take Philip to Holland without her? She hadn’t planned on that. Dumbfounded, she watched Lester ride off. Her time of half mourning would be up in a few weeks—right after the festival. The fiend wouldn’t be stopped by the mention of Mathew’s name. Lester would be ruthless and abusive. She wouldn’t have any recourse. She’d have to comply to keep Philip safe.
Breathing heavily, she headed to Tradenwood when another shadow fell upon her. It reached for her hand and steadied her, and this time she very much wanted to see this ghost.
Ewan was at her side. He held her hand gently as he had in the field with Mrs. Gutter. “What’s wrong? Did that man hurt you?”
Everything was wrong. Every hope was being pulled from her, making her dizzy, and so unsure. She shook her head, but couldn’t make words come out. Instead, she pressed their linked hands to her bosom.
With his grip tightening upon her fingers, he pulled her slowly and brought her close. “I’ll kill him if he hurt you.”
That didn’t sound like Ewan. It was his voice for sure, but with a resolve she hadn’t remembered him possessing.
He brushed her cheek. His thumb traced her neck before lowering his hand to her shoulder. “I mean it, Theo. I will.”
Before she could stop herself, she fell into his arms. She needed something bigger than herself. Something to pin her hopes upon, even for a moment. And Ewan was here. His arms were tough, his chest solid, and his hold, everything she wanted when everything seemed wrong.
She stopped thinking. Didn’t want to be challenged or scared anymore. She molded into her ghost and let her every fear absorb into him and disappear. Isn’t that what ghosts did?
“I’m here, Theo. I saw him come at you. He meant to scare you.” He kissed her temple. “I won’t let him hurt you.”
Her ear met the raised scars on his chest. They could be felt through his shirt and silky waistcoat. She looked up into those blue, bluer-than-the-sky eyes and saw an anchor. But anchors sunk to the bottom of things. Theodosia couldn’t go lower. She couldn’t have more regrets. “This isn’t real. It’s a daydream to replace my nightmares. Let me go.”
His arms became heavy about her middle, his fingers kneading the stiffness of her back. “I’m here, truly here. I watched that big man coming at you. Who was he?”
Her ghost sounded as if he cared. Why? With the jitters caused by Lester draining away, she tried to step back, but his fingers met the nape of her neck and she became more breathless, more dependent upon him. “You’ve…”
She sounded strangled, but found some forgotten air in her weak body and pushed it out. “You’ve been watching me?”
A dimple popped on his lean cheek and the scent of him, sweet-like-cloves, haunted her nose.
“That’s what ghosts do. And old habits in these fields are hard to break. And you’ve always been prettier than these flowers.” His tone stiffened, hinting of possession. “The man who upset you? You haven’t said who he was. Not a suitor gone wrong?”
She didn’t owe Ewan an explanation. He was an enemy, right? With a determined shove, she broke free of his arms. Letting distance cool her racing pulse, she turned and started the slow walk back to the house.
“Who was he, Theo, I mean, Mrs. Cecil?”
At this she turned. She felt her face getting heavy in wetness, but didn’t care. Who would Ewan tell that he found her crazed and weak in the fields? His father who hated her, the family who had pretended she didn’t exist until they wanted to buy her land? “Mr. Lester is the man I am to marry, if my newspaper suitor doesn’t come up to scratch. I will have to give up the only name I’ve ever had, one that is honorable and decent, beyond reproach.”
He fished into his pocket and whipped out a handkerchief. “Here, Theo. I can help. Let me help.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” She mopped up more tears than she thought she had left. She felt him coming near, but held a hand up to stop him. “It isn’t proper to be in your arms. You’re not a beloved memory, only another man trying to convince me to do something.” With a final swipe, she tossed the wet cloth at him. “Good day, sir.”
He clasped her arm. “Sign Lord Crisdon’s deal, Theo, and give us a reasonable lease. I’ll protect you from everybody who is truly trying to hurt you. You know I don’t want you hurt.”
“I don’t know anything about you, except that you are given to threats and careless dreams. And what do you know of me? I can tell you every memory of every dream you ever had, but what of mine? No, I was your secret little fancy. Good day, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
“Did Cecil trick you into becoming his mistress?”
She turned toward the house. “No more than you did.”
He reached for her arm, and she shared his strong, alive pulse. “Theo, you loved Cecil? Did you love him more than me?”
She pulled free and then kept walking.
“Did he coerce you? Or compromise you? Did you go to him the moment I left or after you thought I died? I need to know why you didn’t stay true to me, unless you never loved me at all.”
Over her shoulder she saw him following, but she was done. No more explanations of her complicated world to a ghost or a baron. “If you knew me at all, you’d know the answer.”
When she didn’t hear steps trailing, her breathing returned to normal, in and out, in and out. That was good. If her ghost learned her truth, her deepest regret would make the hauntings worse, much worse.
…
Ewan watched Theo until she was safely on the patio at Tradenwood. He’d plodded through these fields every day, looking for an opportunity to catch her, to find a moment where she’d tell him what happened with Cecil, her child, or her health. It had become a sport, catching her here or there. Yet, each moment was a wonder. He’d seen the girl who’d been so shy caring for her tenants. He’d caught the number-wonder, bartering and calculating—she was as sharp in mathematics as ever.
Then she’d disappeared. She’d become the ghost, until today. That had saddened him more than it should. He swatted at his wilted cravat, crushed by the heat of her, and searched his mind for a memory, a word about her past. She’d mentioned her mother only once in passing. She’d then led Ewan by the nose into his favorite topic, himself. It had been far too easy to do for the attention-starved outcast. Pigheaded and selfish, that was what he was. He kicked a rock, wishing it was his head. He knew her, but not like he should’ve.
“Whoa there.” Jasper had ridden up so close that Ewan’s rock skipped right in front, almost hitting the pewter-colored horse. “Brother, you look like you lost your best friend. How could that be, since I am right here?”
“How did you sneak up on me?” He straightened his collar. “Where have you been? The coaching inn’s tavern hasn’t opened up yet.”
“How droll.” Jasper jumped down from his mount. “Been to Town meeting with glass makers. The hothouse ideas at Tradenwood. That’s what we need here, but I must figure out how to convince Father, despite the expense. If only he’d let me run this place. I could do so much. We could be doing so much.”
Ewan nodded, happy something captured Jasper’s interest that wasn’t brandy. “I’m sure you’ll convince him. He might listen to your unpolluted opinions.”
Jasper’s face blanked, but he took some items out of his saddle. “Playwrights need to be direct or more generous in their statements.”
It was unkind to drag his brother’s nose in his liquor habits. But he couldn’t think straight. Against his will, his mind locked on Theo and the boor who had nearly ran her down. Ewan looked down at his scuffed boots, the fresh mud from Tradenwood fields, the same darkness seemed thick on Jasper’s boots. “You had a good ride? Tradenwood seems popular today.”
“Yes, I examined one of our neighbor’s hothouses. Funny thing. I caught a loving couple in the fields,” Jasper said with a cocked brow and a smirk. “Interesting negotiation tactics. Do you intend upon seducing the enemy or was she leading you back into her web?”
“That’s not what happened.”
“You should be more discreet. You and the good widow or the good Jezebel, the one you wrote in your play. Is that how you intend to get her to sign the lease, beating her at her own game and bedding her? Maybe stash a bottle of ink by the pillow?”
Ewan felt his stomach fill with heat. His chest tightened, as did his fist. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
“Then tell me what you are doing. We were close once.”
The way Jasper said “close” reminded Ewan of the other losses spurred on by his leaving for war. His brother was dear to him. They’d once been able to share everything. By accepting his father’s ultimatum, Ewan had lost Theo, the fortune he would’ve inherited, and his brother’s confidences. “I wasn’t here to support you in the loss of Maria. I didn’t come back. I stayed with my regiment. That’s where I belonged.”
“You belong with family, no matter what. And don’t go seducing the widow and then blame us when things don’t work.”
Was that what Ewan was trying to do? Less comforting cousin, more carnal cretin? He shook his head. “’Twas no seduction. Mrs. Cecil has another enemy. That Lester character. He threatened her. I couldn’t leave her, not until I knew she was safe. She needed defending. What do you know of this man?”
“Yes, that embrace looked quite defensible. I don’t think anything could get to her—beasts, air…” Jasper went around him and gave the reins to a groom. “Give my girl a good brushing.”
The servant nodded and walked into the stable with Jasper’s magnificent horseflesh.
When only the two siblings remained in the courtyard, his brother poked Ewan in the shoulder. “You be careful. You and Father are beginning to reconcile. You are back here at Grandbole. Don’t destroy that for a fling.”
