Of all things upon earth that bleed and grow,
A herb most bruised is woman.
Euripides, c. 480—406 B.C.
Drew decided that he’d rather face a charge of French cavalry than ever have dealings with another undertaker. Especially if the undertaker was Denton Smalley.
The man had questioned every decision he’d made, from the length of the lying-in-state and the place of burial to the number of vehicles and guests in the funeral procession. Almost every decision. It seemed the unctuous undertaker was thrilled to learn the archbishop of Canterbury would conduct the services. The rector of Swanslea wouldn’t have been nearly as good for future business.
And Drew soon discovered that business was Mr. Smalley’s primary concern. When they’d finally settled on the order of precedence for the honored guests and the servants in the late marquess’s households, the number of coaches and horses required, and the number of farmers, laborers, tradesmen, and tenants on foot in the procession and decided upon the arrangements and the cost, the undertaker had had the gall to suggest that the ton would think him cheap unless he selected the finest quality gloves and scarves for the guests. He was required to supply at least two pairs of gloves per guest and two sets of mourning clothes for all of the late marquess’s servants.
Once they’d settled those details for his father, the entire process had begun again for his father’s companion. Only this time the undertaker had argued that because the young woman in question had no near relatives, more mutes would have to be hired to act as mourners.
When Drew sarcastically remarked that they might as well hire the opera chorus at the Haymarket Theater to act as mourners, Mr. Smalley had leaped at the opportunity to extend an invitation. It proved easier to go along with the ridiculous idea than to fight it.
Drew gave in, throwing up his hands in frustration, and Kathryn had entered into the negotiations.
From that moment forward, Drew refused to allow the undertaker to steer him where he wanted him to go, deferring instead to Kathryn. She had dealt with the man before and she was more adept at handling him. She had an innate ability to make the right decisions and the patience to do so. She understood the importance of honoring the late marquess and the need to keep the funeral a family affair.
George Ramsey had been a man with two very disparate lives. His public life had been spent as King’s Bench, a member of the House of Lords, a peer of the realm, but his private life had included several mistresses Martin Bell was currently tracking down, one of them a young woman named Mary Claire who had remained largely unknown.
There would be no lying-in-state for Mary Claire, no great funeral procession, only family and known friends from the opera chorus. There would be no additional mutes or ostentatious funeral gifts. The guests who attended Mary Claire’s funeral would receive the same gloves and scarves George’s guests received along with a simple mourning brooch. Her funeral would take place after the marquess’s. It would, in effect, take place while George’s funeral feast was underway.
Kathryn had taken control and quietly, efficiently finished working out the details of his father’s funeral and arranging Mary Claire’s. Drew shook his head in amazement. The thing he’d feared most—the scandal he’d been sure would ensue if he allowed one of his father’s mistresses to oversee the funeral of another—was without merit.
Oh, he knew that there would be talk. There was always gossip among the ton. But there would be no scandal. Because the mistress arranging the funeral was Kathryn. And Drew frankly didn’t know what he would have done without her.
She was magnificent.
And he wanted her now more than ever before.
Drew turned from his silent contemplation of the fire in the hearth and walked over to the secretary. Kathryn had fled to the safety of her dowager cottage the moment they’d returned to Swanslea Park. She’d made a feeble excuse about needing to see to her menagerie and he’d let her go. Not because he wanted to, but because she needed him to.
The call on the rector had to have been one of the most humiliating experiences of her life, doubly humiliating because he’d been witness to it. Drew opened the glass doors and poured himself a snifter of brandy from the decanter. Kathryn had known what to expect, yet she’d willingly agreed to accompany him. She’d subjected herself to the minister’s abuse simply because he had asked her to help him. A muscle began to tick in his jaw. Out of love for his father? Or out of friendship to him?
Drew took a swallow of his brandy and stared at the pull-down desk of the secretary. The message from Martin lay open on the writing surface. It had been delivered to Swanslea Park while he and Kathryn were paying calls on the rector and the undertaker. He reread the words Martin had written: Having concluded our sad business in Ireland, I am returning home with the bodies of the fifteenth marquess of Templeston and his companion. Am expected to arrive on the twenty-third. Your loyal friend and servant, Martin Bell.
Drew glanced at the calendar. Tomorrow.
Drew took several sheets of stationery out of the top drawer. It was time to decide.
Could he forgive her her past? Could he forgive her for disappointing him the last time? She’d asked him if he could marry her without regrets. And he’d promised that he could. But he wasn’t so sure. Could he be that noble? Could he forget that she’d been his father’s mistress and had borne him a son? Could he put aside his dream of children of his own? Could he make those sacrifices in order to build a lasting relationship with her?
He did love me, she had told him. But you should know that any love he felt for me paled in comparison to what he felt for you.
Drew had always taken his father’s love for granted and accepted it as part of his due. He was an only son and heir. A beloved son and heir. He’d believed that wholeheartedly until he’d learned of his father’s death— and of Kit, his father’s other son. Now he wondered how the father who had loved him so much could have taken Kathryn as his mistress. She said he’d done it to protect her from men like the minister and the undertaker, but Drew wasn’t so sure. Was it possible that his father— his beloved father—had wanted her for himself six years ago? Something had happened to Kathryn that made her change her mind about marrying him. Had his father taken what he wanted? Had he seduced her or forced her?
And would Kathryn have remained loyal to a man who had forced her—even if that man had been a marquess?
Knowing everything you know about me, knowing everything that your friends and colleagues are likely to say about me, knowing that there are things in my past neither of us can change, can you forgive that past and marry me without regret?
Was she asking too much of him? Or was he expecting too much from himself?
Because Drew knew in his heart of hearts that he would have regrets—too many regrets—if the only relationship he managed to build with her was built on the need to protect Kit and on mutual desire. Would he be able to keep his regrets to himself? Would he be able to hide the truth from her? Could he live with himself if she disappointed him once again?
And how did Kathryn feel about him? What did she want from him? What did she need? But most of all, why had she left him six years ago?
Drew sighed. He had asked himself these questions a thousand times over the past two days, never daring to look too close for the answer. Until now. Because now he needed more from Kathryn than physical release. He needed redemption from the long, empty existence his life had become. He had gone in search of death when she abandoned him and he’d found every manner of death imaginable—except his own. Now he needed to learn how to live. And he was very much afraid that Kathryn was the only woman who could teach him how.
He’d risked his life the last time she’d disappointed him. Shouldn’t he be willing to risk his future on the chance that she wouldn’t a second time? Drew took a drink of his brandy, then sat down at the secretary and began to write a heartfelt letter to his godfather, the archbishop of Canterbury, enclosing the twenty-eight guin
eas necessary for a special license.
A knock on the door interrupted his writing. “Come in.”
Harriet Allerton opened the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but Kit wanted to know if you’d come up and tuck him in.”
Drew smiled. “I’d be happy to. Please, come in. That is, if you don’t object to being alone with me. You may leave the door open if you like.”
Ally’s shy smile transformed her rather plain features. “That won’t be necessary, my lord. I’m over thirty and employed in your household. I have no objection to being alone with you.”
“I had hoped Mrs. Stafford would join me for dinner but she retired to the cottage with a headache after we returned from Mr. Smalley’s.” Drew shuddered. “I can certainly understand why. The rector was bad enough, but the undertaker is a ghoul.”
“A lecherous ghoul,” Ally corrected.
“I take it you’ve met the man,” he replied dryly. He walked over to the secretary, poured a small glass of sherry, and offered it to her.
Ally accepted the drink. “Unfortunately. And I’ve heard quite a bit about what happened this afternoon.”
Drew looked surprised.
“Belowstairs is up in arms, sir. The coachmen heard nearly everything and what they didn’t hear Mr. Pool’s maid has been repeating all over the village.” She paused. “Don’t be so surprised. Mr. Pool and Mr. Smalley view all women as vessels for their improper suggestions. Including me.” She took a sip of sherry, studying Drew over the rim of her glass.
“The rector acted abominably,” Drew said angrily.
“So did you when you first arrived,” Ally reminded him. “The truth is that he desires her and he despises her for his weakness.” The governess looked him in the eye. “You must realize that it took a great deal of courage for Wren to accompany you to the rectory and to the undertaker’s place of business. They’ve hounded her mercilessly.”
“I had no idea,” he said.
“The world has always been friendlier to men than women,” Ally said. “And some men take that idea quite to heart. They believe they should be able to have whatever or whomever they want.”
“She handled herself very well.” He frowned. “She conducted herself with a great deal more decorum than I did.”
“A woman in Wren’s position has little choice except to learn how to exercise restraint.”
“She was magnificent.”
“You still love her.” Ally hadn’t realized she’d spoken her thoughts aloud until she saw the expression of wonderment on his face.
“Yes, I believe that’s a possibility,” he answered. “Tell me, Ally, has she been in to say good night to Kit yet?”
Ally nodded. “She came up right after his supper. She didn’t stay long. She listened to him recount this afternoon’s adventures, kissed him good night, and returned to the cottage.” Ally hesitated. “She appeared to have been crying.”
Drew set his glass on a side table and raked his hands through his hair. “Damn. I knew I should have killed that pompous ass.” He looked up and remembered Ally was in the room. “I beg your pardon, Miss Allerton.”
“There’s no need,” Ally assured him. “I’m very fond of Wren and if it were possible for me to do so, I would have dispatched that odious man months ago. I cannot believe he’s going to conduct the late marquess’s funeral service. He sees his lordship’s death as an opportunity to impress the ton with his rhetoric. He views his position here as rector as a society coup instead of an opportunity to serve the village.”
“There’s no need for you to get worked up about it, Ally,” Drew told her. “Apparently the coachmen didn’t hear everything. For if they had, they would have known that the reason I paid a call on the reverend in the first place was to inform him that my godfather, the archbishop of Canterbury, had asked if he could conduct the services and that I had naturally agreed.”
Ally clapped her hands in delight. “The archbishop of Canterbury is coming to Swanslea?”
“Yes.”
The governess’s eyes sparkled despite the solemnity of the occasion for the archbishop’s visit. “That means… Oh, my lord Templeston, but that would be a splendid time to…”
“Purchase a special license?”
Ally nodded.
“I’m one step ahead of you, Miss Allerton.” Drew held up the sheet of paper he’d been writing on when she entered the study. “I’ve already requested one.” He showed her the twenty-eight guineas he planned to enclose. “Paid in advance.”
“I wish you both every happiness, my lord.” Ally finished her sherry and rose from her seat. “I’m very pleased and proud to be a part of the staff here.”
“You’re not a part of the staff,” Drew said. “You’re part of the family. Please tell Kit I’ll be up momentarily.” He winked at the governess. “Just as soon as I conclude this letter.”
Wren looked up from her desk, the lines on the pages of illustrations and watercolor drawings scattered across her worktable blurring in the lamplight. She squeezed her eyes closed, then wearily pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger to ward off the headache threatening to form there. It was no use. She couldn’t keep her mind off Drew long enough to concentrate on her work.
She had returned from Mr. Smalley’s and gone straight to the cottage. She told Drew she needed to tend to the animals, but that was only partly true. Wren needed time alone to think about what she’d done in the midst of an afternoon that had turned nightmarish in the extreme; Andrew Ramsey had proposed marriage once again. And she’d accepted once again.
Wren put her drawings away and got up from her worktable. She went into the kitchen, built a fire in the hearth, and heated water for a hot bath. She dragged the big copper tub from the alcove and filled it halfway with water from the pump. She sat down on a wooden stool and, while she waited for the rest of her bathwater to heat, reflected on what might prove to be the greatest folly of her life.
He hadn’t said he loved her. He’d talked about duty and convenience and a marriage that would make Kit legitimate and provide a measure of protection for him against the cruel gossip and the stigma of being born a bastard. He’d told her he wanted her and assured her that he could marry her without regret.
What he hadn’t told her was how he knew marrying her without regret was possible. Had he truly forgiven her?
Wren sighed. Drew had wanted to know if his father had loved her. And she’d told him half the truth when she’d said that he had. But George had never loved her romantically. He’d loved her like a daughter. Or, more precisely, he’d loved her like a daughter-in-law. He had loved her because Drew had loved her. Because he had loved his son.
She closed her eyes and remembered the desperation in her father’s eyes the morning after the coach—a coach identical to the one they’d ridden in this afternoon—had deposited her at the front door of her Aunt Edwina’s town house. Wren shuddered involuntarily. The coach she and Drew had used this afternoon had brought back a flood of memories she’d thought she’d finally managed to forget. But some things were impossible to forget and the fear and pain and terror of rape was one of them.
The household had been asleep when the coach dropped her off. Wren remembered stumbling into the kitchen and doing exactly as she was doing now. She’d dropped her ruined gown and underclothes on the floor, drawn a scalding hot bath, sank down into it, and scrubbed her skin until it was raw.
She’d managed to remove the scent of him, but she’d never quite erased the feel. It never went away no matter how often she washed or how hard she scrubbed. The humiliation she’d suffered this afternoon evoked the same feelings. And here she was, six years later, attempting the same remedy.
Wren got down from the stool, lifted the pot of boiling water from the hook above the fire, and poured it into her tub. She gathered her bath things—a washcloth, a bottle of scented oil, a bar of soap, a length of toweling from the alcove cupboard. She retrieved her flannel nig
htgown and robe from the bedroom and returned to the kitchen. Wren hung the robe and nightgown on a peg by the door and set everything else within reach on the stool. She poured a handful of scented oil into the bathtub and swirled it around. The scent of tuberoses filled the kitchen.
Wren added more coal to the fire, undressed, and stepped into the tub. Easing herself into the water, Wren soaped her body, then sank low in the tub, resting her head against the rim. She closed her eyes, covered them with her forearm, and sighed in relief as the water soothed her aching muscles.
The hot water hadn’t soothed her six years ago. Nothing could soothe her then. Six years ago, she’d climbed out of the bath when the water grew too cold to bear, wrapped herself in her cloak, and crept into her bed, curling herself into a tight ball and willing herself to die.
A kitchen maid discovered the bathtub, still full of water, the next morning. On the floor beside it lay Wren’s silver dress and her ruined undergarments. The maid summoned the housekeeper, who summoned the butler, who summoned her aunt, who sent someone to rouse Wren’s father before rushing to her niece’s bedchamber.
She found Wren wrapped in her cloak, curled tightly in a ball in the center of her bed, desperately clutching a razor-sharp knife in her fist. Wren never remembered taking the knife from the kitchen or what she intended to do with it. She only remembered wanting to die.
Wren hadn’t thought the marks were visible. She’d fought him when he’d taken her unawares, but he’d only struck her once. He’d forced her face down into the cushions covering the hard wood of the coach seat and held it there while he pushed himself into her from behind. He hadn’t meant to leave any marks—any sign that he’d ever been there. And he’d been surprised to discover that she was still a virgin, pleased that, despite her engagement, he’d been the first.
Wren had foolishly believed that what had happened in the dark confines of the marquess of Templeston’s coach would remain a secret. But she’d been wrong.
Her father had cried when he saw her. He was able to see what had been done to her. And if he could see it, so could everyone else. She’d demanded a mirror and her father had reluctantly handed one over. Wren stared into it without emotion. The young woman with the bruised and swollen cheekbone, the black eye, and the scraped forehead was unrecognizable. She bore no resemblance to the Wren Markinson who had attended a Vauxhall Gardens concert on the arm of Drew Ramsey because that Wren Markinson no longer existed.
Her aunt had accompanied her to Vauxhall, but they’d become separated during the crush at intermission. Wren and Drew had remained in their seats, chatting with friends who came by while her aunt went to speak with friends of her own. When Drew received an urgent message summoning him to the War Office, he’d escorted Wren to his borrowed coach while he went in search of her aunt and someone to see them safely home.
Her aunt never appeared, but someone else had and he’d shoved her into the corner of the coach and raped her.
Aunt Edwina suggested they send for Drew.
But Wren refused to allow it, saying she didn’t want to see him.
Despite repeated attempts to change her mind, Wren never relented. The prospect of seeing Drew terrified her. She made her father and aunt swear they wouldn’t say anything. Made them promise never to breathe a word of what happened. And they’d agreed. For her sake, if not for Drew’s.
She would only say that a man had attacked her in the coach and forced himself on her.
They told Drew she’d taken ill and offered no explanation for the illness.
On the day of her wedding, Wren remained in bed. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move. She didn’t make a sound. She simply willed herself to disappear.
She almost succeeded.
If she hadn’t discovered that she was with child, she might have stayed in bed until she died. But while she could wish for her own death, she could not condemn an innocent child to that same fate. By the time she felt strong enough to face Drew, he had gone to Belgium with Wellington.
When she confided in her father, he had sent for George and the two of them had set out to secure a husband for her.
Bertrand Stafford had been the perfect man for the job.
He was older and scholarly, he had known Wren from the time she was a little girl, and he sincerely wanted to be her chevalier. Bertrand proposed a marriage of convenience and Wren reluctantly but gratefully accepted. In exchange for Bertrand’s name and protection, she agreed to take care of him and his house in his waning years.
The marriage was chaste and companionable and the agreement worked well right up until Bertrand’s death when her son was nearly five months old.
“Kathryn?”
Wren lowered her arm and opened her eyes, yanked back to the present by that rich and familiar baritone.
Chapter Twenty-four
Once a Mistress Page 27