To Bed the Bride

by Karen Ranney

In the morning her aunt visited her. At noon it was Daphne. In the early evening it was Hamilton, who carefully averted his gaze from her, dressed as she was only in a nightgown with the bedspread as her robe.

  The family visits were not designed to ensure her health or well-being. Instead, each of her relatives was determined to make her see how wrong she’d been. Her wedding to Michael would end all of Hamilton’s worries about his company’s future. It would immediately elevate Deborah and give Daphne status. It would help Jeremy in his search for a position to give him meaning and purpose in life.

  Couldn’t she see what damage she was doing by refusing to marry the earl?

  They didn’t want to discuss the situation or hear what she felt or thought. The first day each of them was almost kind. Deborah didn’t appear angry anymore. Her tone was measured, without a hint of irritation.

  The second day they were more insistent. Her aunt grew increasingly annoyed at Eleanor’s silence. She’d already realized that she might as well save her words. No one wanted to hear them.

  On the third day she wasn’t brought breakfast. Nor was the noon meal forthcoming. The bell pull beside the fireplace had been disconnected in the kitchen, so she couldn’t signal for any of the servants.

  When Hamilton arrived in the evening he was accompanied by a maid who carried a tray containing a bowl of lukewarm soup and a thin slice of bread.

  “Your aunt thinks that if you are only allowed one meal a day, Eleanor, you will soon come to see how foolish you are being.”

  “Should I be grateful that I’m not being tortured, Hamilton?” she asked.

  To his credit, he looked uncomfortable. She couldn’t help but wonder if this new punishment was her aunt’s decision or if Michael had any say in what happened to her.

  They didn’t understand. It was possible that they would never understand. It wasn’t just Michael’s dislike of her country, the sale of the Hearthmere bloodline, or his contempt for anything she cherished. It was obvious that he felt nothing for her or he wouldn’t approve of what was happening.

  She didn’t want to have anything to do with Michael Herridge. She didn’t want to become the Countess of Wescott. She yearned to be herself, to be Eleanor Craig of Hearthmere. She wanted to marry a man not because of what he might be able to do for the family, not because of his wealth or position or title, but because he stirred her heart. Because he was kind and witty and thought of others. Because a quick glance from him made her heart warm.

  Michael might be able to dictate where she was kept, what she ate, how she was dressed, but he couldn’t alter her thoughts or soften her will. She was a Scot and plenty of her countrymen had already demonstrated their obstinacy in the face of tyranny. She could do no less.

  The days passed and she kept track of them by using one of her hairpins to scratch the wood inside one of the empty dresser drawers. No one would come for her; she knew that only too well. She’d given Logan no reason to think that she had changed her mind about Michael. He had no inkling of her decision not to marry.

  He would think that she was simply preparing for her wedding. Would he wonder about her at all? Would he remember that magical afternoon and think—as she sometimes did—that it felt like a dream?

  At the beginning of the second week she wondered if she was strong enough to hold out after all. She was nearly faint with hunger almost all the time. The maid never came by herself but was always accompanied by Hamilton. If she’d been alone Eleanor might have begged her for more food. The girl had a look on her face that indicated she would’ve been willing to help.

  There were days when Eleanor wondered if it was worth leaving her bed. In the morning she always bathed with cold water, standing in front of the dresser, then drying with the thin piece of toweling she’d been allowed. After that she changed to a fresh nightgown and sat on the edge of the bed in a square of sunlight.

  She fell back onto the habits of her childhood, kneeling beside the bed and praying as she hadn’t since leaving Scotland. The prayers were simple yet fervent. Save me, God.

  Deborah, Daphne, and Hamilton came every day to lecture her. Deborah looked like she was losing her temper most of the time. Eleanor always moved away from her aunt, choosing to stand against the wall in case Deborah wanted to strike her again.

  “You’re a fool, Eleanor,” Deborah said yesterday. “You can make this so much easier on yourself by simply agreeing that you made a mistake. Of course you’re going to marry Michael and do so happily. The world will see you as an ecstatic bride. All you have to do is agree that you were wrong. That’s all, Eleanor. It’s so easy. Three simple little words. I was wrong. Tell Michael that it was all a mistake.”

  What her aunt wanted was impossible. The only way she could say those words was to reject everything her father stood for, everything he worked to create all his life. She couldn’t turn over Hearthmere to Michael. She couldn’t allow the house to be gutted and the horses sold.

  What kind of man was Michael that he would go along with his future bride being punished? Even worse, if he agreed to this treatment now, what would he do when she was his wife and she displeased him? Keep her chained in the attic and fed bread and water?

  For days Eleanor wrestled with the idea of telling her aunt about Logan. She hadn’t wanted to involve him, but the more time passed the more she realized that her relatives were in thrall to Michael. Telling Deborah about that afternoon might be the only thing that saved her.

  She waited until her aunt closed the door and approached the bed. Sometimes, she was so dizzy when she stood that it was better if she just sat on the edge of the mattress.

  “I’m not a virgin,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not a virgin. You asked me if I felt something for Logan and I do. I’ve been with him.”

  Deborah stared at her. “You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not. I was with Logan the day Michael brought me home.”

  “Does he know?”

  Eleanor forced a smile to her face. “He wouldn’t want me if he did know, would he? I’m going to tell him, Deborah. This marriage you want so desperately isn’t going to happen.”

  Deborah came so close that Eleanor was certain the older woman was going to strike her again. She closed her eyes, willing herself to absorb the blow without a sound.

  It didn’t come.

  “You fool,” Deborah said softly. “You’re a spoiled, obstinate girl who’s trying to ruin us all.”

  Eleanor opened her eyes at the sound of the door closing and the snick of the key in the lock.

  A few hours later her aunt was back, a cup in her hand. She pulled up the lone chair and sat, facing Eleanor on the bed.

  “Drink this,” she said, holding it out. “It will make you feel better.”

  Eleanor was always so hungry and thirsty that she took the cup eagerly.

  “It’s a special tea,” Deborah said. “Something to make you stronger.”

  Had her admission worked? Had her aunt realized that the truth would change Michael’s mind?

  She began to drink the tea. It was hot and liberally laced with sugar, but it still tasted terrible, a strong mix of herbs and something that reminded her of licorice. When it was finished she handed the cup back to her aunt.

  “Listen to me,” Deborah said, very softly. “I’ll not repeat this, Eleanor, so it’s important that you listen well.”

  She looked at her aunt, nodding.

  “Hamilton knows some unsavory people. Regretfully, so does Jeremy. The type of person who would think nothing of taking a few pounds for a despicable task. Breaking a leg, for example. Or even garroting someone.”

  Her voice was low and menacing, the match to the look in her eyes. There was no pity there, no compassion or empathy. At that moment Eleanor believed Deborah, knew that her aunt would stop at nothing to achieve her aims.

  Had she always been as ruthless?

  “I’ve given you something to
ensure that you don’t carry a bastard, Eleanor. You’ll begin to feel the effects shortly. If you mention being with Logan to Michael I will have McKnight killed. It will be ridiculously easy to do.”

  She could only stare at her aunt.

  “As for your wedding night, you’ve been on horseback since you were a child. Michael knows that. He won’t be able to tell you’re not a virgin unless you tell him. It’s your choice, Eleanor. McKnight’s life or your marriage. Which is it to be?”

  Once upon a time, when Deborah had first come to Hearthmere, Eleanor had wondered if her aunt would become her second mother. That had never happened.

  Now she knew it never would.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Who did you say you were again?” the majordomo asked.

  “Mrs. Campbell. Mrs. Althea Campbell. A native of Inverness. I promised my cousin that if I ever made it to London I’d look up Miss Craig. He was a great friend of her father’s, you see. Long did they know each other. In fact, my cousin helped him with his horses.”

  “Miss Craig isn’t accepting visitors, I’m afraid.”

  The majordomo was as autocratic as any London servant. Fortunately, he also had a voice that carried. Logan didn’t have any difficulty hearing the two from his position inside the carriage.

  “Is it sick she is? Oh, no, how dreadful. I’ll be sure and send word that she’s ill. He’ll be so upset, what with how fond he was of her father. Will I be able to leave her my card? Or this note I have for her?”

  He expected the majordomo to refuse, but to his surprise the man took both the card and the envelope containing the carefully constructed letter they’d written. It was an innocuous message, in case it didn’t reach Eleanor. In it, Mrs. Campbell had expressed her wish to meet Eleanor and waxed eloquent about a nonexistent cousin. If Eleanor did happen to read it, it would only confuse her, perhaps enough to ask for Mrs. Campbell to return.

  Until they’d arrived this morning and Mrs. Campbell had knocked on the door of the Richardses’ townhouse, they hadn’t known where Eleanor was. Logan had gone to Queen’s Park for two straight days at different times. She hadn’t been there. At least the majordomo had indicated that she was still in London.

  What he didn’t know was if she was avoiding him. Or had someone kept her from her usual Wednesday visits?

  When Mrs. Campbell returned to the carriage, they exchanged a look.

  “At least we know she’s still in London,” Mrs. Campbell said.

  “Do you think she’s ill?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think something else is going on.”

  He glanced at his housekeeper. “Are you sure you aren’t using some Celtic intuition?” he asked, only half teasing.

  She shook her head. “No, there was something in his eyes. Something that bothered him. I think you need to find out what it is.”

  “Short of taking a battering ram to their front door, what do you suggest I do?”

  She tilted her head slightly and eyed him. It was the same look Logan had gotten from a determined ewe when he’d been a shepherd for a few days. The ewe had been stubborn, just like Mrs. Campbell.

  “You’re a handsome man. A house this big would require a staff near the size of ours. Lots of young girls, some of them silly. Silly enough to want to please a handsome man by getting a note to Eleanor. Or confiding the truth in you.”

  “So you want me to engage in a flirtation with the servants?”

  Mrs. Campbell leaned forward, reached out, and patted his knee. “It might take more than one day. Not that you don’t have an excess of charm when you want it, you understand. It’s just that they might have put the fear of God into their staff to not speak of anything that goes on in the household.”

  “Have you?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Put the fear of God into the staff?”

  “I’ve no need. Our people are Scots. They’ve no wish to share our secrets with the English.”

  He wasn’t certain he had all that many secrets, except the one from the other day. Hopefully no one knew about what had transpired in the drawing room.

  Despite Mrs. Campbell’s words about his supposed charm, Logan didn’t accomplish much. Hedges in the back of the house sheltered the small yard on two sides. Anyone strolling by would immediately be looked on with suspicion. He’d already crafted a story for himself if he was questioned. He was going to pretend to be a new resident in the neighborhood.

  The first day he occupied himself by peering through the hedges. If the mission hadn’t been so important, he would have felt ridiculous. As it was, he was willing to do anything in order to find out what had happened to Eleanor.

  From what he saw, the maids were occasionally in the back lawn, either hanging laundry to dry or taking out refuse. He heard how irritated two of them were about the new household assignments. Two of the upper maids had been rotated, which was, from what he could tell, a demotion of sorts. They weren’t pleased and already talking about other households that needed help.

  He only learned two things. First, the maids gossiped. Second, only a few of them were young. Most of them—at least the ones he’d seen—were in their middle years. He wondered if that was a conscious decision. Had Eleanor’s aunt chosen older servants so they were less of a temptation to the males in the family? From what he’d seen of Jeremy, Logan wouldn’t be surprised if that young man took advantage of a woman employed by his mother.

  He remained where he was for some time, realizing it wasn’t an easy feat finding an ally in the Richardses’ household. Every time one of the servants entered the yard they were accompanied by someone else, so he couldn’t lure one of the maids away without calling attention to his presence.

  Finally, he returned to his carriage and his housekeeper. Hopefully, Mrs. Campbell would have some additional ideas to gain the trust of the Richardses’ maids.

  For two days Eleanor was nearly senseless. She lay in bed motionless except for bouts of nausea. She felt like she was going to die. The morning of the second day she didn’t care if she did.

  Deborah returned often to check on her, insisting she drink some tea, and bringing a maid to change the bowl next to the bed. Finally, she helped Eleanor dress in a clean nightgown.

  She didn’t trust her aunt’s new solicitousness. Was Deborah planning on giving her more poison? If she died there’d be no marriage.

  That was her last thought before she succumbed to sleep again.

  On the evening of the second day Hamilton arrived with a maid bearing her one meal. Eleanor couldn’t stomach the thin soup she was given. Even a digestive biscuit made her sick again.

  Please. It was a word she repeated often in her mind. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was asking for. Freedom, perhaps. Or a respite from sickness. Or something to eat. Please.

  She dreamed of food. Food and Logan. They appeared equally in her dreams. If she had her way she’d do nothing but sleep. She wasn’t hungry when she slept. Or as frightened.

  Time was running out. She was getting sicker and sicker. She’d lost. Her aunt would do anything to break her. She knew that now. She also knew that Deborah was going to win.

  Logan had his driver park the carriage on the other side of the square. He walked with his head down, the gait of a man lost in his thoughts. In his pocket he had a note to Eleanor and more money than he normally carried. After conferring with Mrs. Campbell, they’d decided that since spying on the servants for two days hadn’t worked, the best way to get any information about the household was to bribe one of the maids. Somehow he was going to have to get one of them alone and tell her the truth—that he was desperate to learn what had happened to Eleanor.

  There was one maid, younger than the others, who might be persuaded to tell him what she knew.

  As he headed for the row of hedges and the back garden, he glanced up at the windows of the house.

  A figure in a second-floor window had him stopping and retracing his path. Stepping b
ack, he looked up again.

  At first he didn’t recognize the woman standing there in her nightgown, the morning sun making the garment almost diaphanous. A second later he realized it was Eleanor, but not the woman he’d seen weeks earlier. Her face was too thin and pale. Her hair was lank and hanging below her shoulders. She was looking out at the distance with no expression on her face. She might have been a ghost for all the life she demonstrated.

  He waved his hands above him, but she still didn’t see him. He moved closer to the house and dug around in the flowerbeds until he found a few pebbles. He’d always been a good pitcher as a boy and hopefully his skill hadn’t deserted him after all these years.

  Stepping back, he tossed a fair-sized pebble at her window and hit it at the first try. She flinched, startled. He threw another pebble, aiming this one a little higher. She looked down finally and he raised his arms, stepping back so she could see him more clearly.

  Placing both hands against the glass of the window she fell to her knees. She shocked him further by beginning to cry.

  It took him a minute to understand the words she was saying. Help me. She repeated the words over and over, her hands still pressed against the glass.

  Why didn’t she open the window to talk to him?

  It was midmorning and she was still attired in her nightgown. Under normal conditions a woman would have hidden behind the curtains, waved to him, perhaps. Or smiled a little shamefacedly, knowing she’d been seen in her nightclothes.

  Eleanor didn’t do any of that. She hadn’t stopped crying or mouthing the words he couldn’t hear. Help me.

  “I will. I will, Eleanor.”

  Uncertain, he stood there for a moment, trying to decide what to do first. He suspected she was being held against her will, but legally he didn’t have that many options.

  Hamilton and Deborah could be seen as parental figures. As a single woman Eleanor had few protections, especially since she lived in their house. The law was murky on this point, especially if the couple stated that she’d been recalcitrant in some way and they were simply attempting to discipline her.