Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  “What are you doing?” The voice came from behind. His body tensed, and the creature tightened into a ball. A spine penetrated his glove, and he dropped the animal. It disappeared among the grass.

  He turned and faced her. In all the years he’d been aware of her, he had never looked directly into her eyes. But now, his gaze fixed on her, it was if the final link in the invisible chain between them locked into place. Predator and prey were face to face at last. But which was which?

  Hoofbeats rattled in the distance and cracked the silence.

  “Hey! Little grub!”

  Jeffrey appeared at the end of the lane, flanked on either side by Edward and Roger. They might be the least disagreeable male companions Hawthorne could spend his time with, particularly when compared to the odious Roderick Markham and his friends, but that didn’t mean he had to relish their company.

  She stepped back, her gaze darting about, until she spotted a gap in the hedge.

  “Don’t go, I…”

  Before he could finish, she slipped through the hedge and disappeared.

  Chapter Two

  The rain had begun to spatter as Frederica slipped inside the barn, sniffing at the scent of ripening straw. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in a downpour too close to Radley Hall, where she’d be in danger of discovery. Ever since he’d looked at her—really looked at her, it was as if her body had come alive with a need she couldn’t fathom.

  “Little grub!”

  The voice came from behind.

  Jeffrey stood by the door, blocking her way out. Though barely a year older than her, his shadow towered over her. The upper levels of the barn, accessible via a ladder, had a number of windows through which she could crawl.

  “If you run, we’ll catch you,” he said. “I know where you’ll come out. We used to climb that wall together.”

  He held out his hand. “Come on, little grub. I’m inviting you to join us. Roger, Ed, and I, just like old times. Hawthorne has pointed out the error of our ways.”

  Her breath caught at the mention of his name. She swallowed to disguise her reaction, but Jeffrey had seen it. His smile broadened.

  “You like him, don’t you? Do you want him to like you, too?”

  She shook her head. “I thought you didn’t want me hanging around you anymore.”

  He lifted his shoulders. “Sometimes we don’t, sometimes we do.”

  Another shape appeared. Edward.

  “Is she coming with us?”

  Frederica had learned from Grandpapa that Edward had once been thrashed so hard at school for cheeking his housemaster, he’d been unable to sit without crying for the rest of the term.

  With a grin, he held up his hand. Sunlight glinted on the bottle he was holding.

  “Something to tempt you, little grub.”

  “That’s port wine,” she said, taking a closer look at the bottle. A tawny port Papa sold, most likely stolen from Earl Stiles’s cellar.

  “Ever tried it?” Edward asked.

  She shook her head. The port was expensive, and not even a taste was worth the back of Papa’s hand. Earl Stiles was one of the few men among Papa’s clientele who could afford it; him, and his neighbor, the Duke of Markham.

  “Well, I have,” Edward said.

  That much was clear. His breath bore the sour undertones of wine and his words the slur of inebriation. The light shining through the glass betrayed the extent of his thievery, the liquid level in the bottle was almost at the bottom.

  “You’ll get a thrashing, Edward,” she said.

  “It’s Lord Mulberry, to you…”

  “Be quiet, Ed!” Jeffrey interrupted. He turned to Frederica. “Are you going to rat on us?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “We’ll share it with you,” Edward said. “You can have some now.”

  He held out the bottle, and she took it. Edward’s hands had acquired the habit of appropriating things which did not belong to him.

  She sniffed at the bottle. Sticky liquid covered the neck, and she licked her fingers. Like wine, only sweeter—rich, deep notes of ripe fruit. Papa always said the flavor came through years of aging, hence the cost.

  But the inebriated young man in front of her had not been savoring the taste.

  “If you wanted to get drunk, you should have stolen Stiles’s whisky.”

  Edward wrinkled his nose. “Whisky’s disgusting. I prefer this.” He nodded toward the bottle. “Go on, finish it. It’s almost gone.”

  “If you drink it, you can play with us,” Jeffrey said. “Like old times. We’ll even tell you what Hawthorne thinks of you.”

  Her fingers tightened around the bottle.

  “Oh, yes!” Edward said. “He speaks of you an awful lot. If you come with us, you’ll get to see him. He’s in that abandoned cottage we used to play in.”

  She lifted the bottle to her lips and tipped it up. The liquid burst into a flame of taste, and she sputtered and swallowed.

  “Good girl!” Edward exclaimed. “Now you’re one of us.”

  He took her hand and led her out of the barn. The rain had almost stopped, light smatterings of water stinging her skin which had come alive, though she didn’t know if it was the effects of the port or the prospect of being at close quarter with Hawthorne Stiles.

  Hawthorne…

  His features swam into view in her mind—the imposing, dominant stare which immobilized her. If she were to face him, she’d need to strengthen her courage and dull her fear. As they approached the cottage, she finished drinking what was left of the port. The man she worshipped waited for her inside.

  *

  “Where is he?”

  The building was empty apart from Roger who sat cross-legged atop a crate, a bottle in his hand.

  “Our damsel has arrived!” The pitch of his voice and the absent cork told her all she needed to know. He held the bottle out to her, but she shrank back, the predatory look in his eyes making her shiver.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Playing a game,” he replied. “You’re our damsel in distress. And Hawthorne’s going to rescue you. Like in the stories.”

  “What stories?”

  “The princess and the dragon…”

  “Andromeda and Perseus!” Edward exclaimed.

  “Oh, shut up, Ed,” Jeffrey said. “You’re a poor Greek scholar. You’re only interested in that story because the princess is stripped naked. Dirty bugger.”

  A shiver of apprehension rippled through Frederica, and she pulled her hand free.

  “See what you’ve done?” Jeffrey said. “You’ve frightened our damsel.” He gave her a kindly smile. “Our little grub’s to be treated like a lady. No stripping. But we must tie you up so Hawthorne can rescue you properly.”

  He put his arm around her. “Have some more port. It’ll help your nerves. We’ll tell you all about Andromeda, how Perseus rescued her, and they lived happily ever after.”

  A few mouthfuls later, the apprehension scratching at Frederica’s mind had diminished, dulled by the sweet intoxication of the port, and finally driven away by the image in her mind, of her rescuer—of dark, chocolate eyes filled with determination and love as he unbound her and lifted her into his arms to take her to paradise.

  A warm hand engulfed hers. “Come on, little grub. Let’s get started.”

  They took her to the back of the cottage where a broken staircase led to the upper floor. The world shifted out of focus and rocked sideways as if she were in one of the small rowing boats on Radley Lake.

  “Here, let us help you, fair damsel.” Roger said.

  At the top of the stairs, they led her into a small room, empty save for a single chair beside a fireplace. Throaty echoes rattled through the fireplace, the cawing of crows roosting in the chimneypots. Black and white spatters adorned the floor, and the occasional downy feather nestled among the ash in the hearth. Her nostrils wrinkled at the acidic stench.

  “Sit her down.�
� Jeffrey ordered. “The monster awaits our sacrifice.”

  Fingers of dread ran along her spine. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  “Silly little grub,” Jeffrey teased. “We’re just playacting. Take some more port, it’ll make you feel better.”

  A new sensation rumbled in her stomach, like the time she’d eaten oysters for the first time and had promptly expelled her supper over the dining room floor, much to Papa’s distress. She took a deep breath and the sensation subsided.

  Two pairs of hands steered her toward the chair.

  “Got the rope?”

  “Rope…” Her tongue thickened in her mouth, the paralyzing effect of the port hampering her speech.

  “Don’t worry, little grub. We won’t tie proper knots.”

  Blurred shapes moved in front of her. The stench of bird dung rolled over her like a wave, and she swallowed.

  “I feel sick…”

  “You’ll be fine,” Roger said. “Your hero will soon be here.”

  “Hawthorne…”

  “Yes, that’s right. When Hawthorne gets here, everything will be fine.”

  Hands took her wrists and ankles, securing them to the chair.

  “Good work, boys!” Jeffrey’s voice was muffled, almost inaudible. “Come on, the monster awaits!”

  Male laughter swirled around her, a door closed, and footsteps receded. She closed her eyes and another noise penetrated her mind, scratching and scuffling, accompanied by a cackle, as if the witches in Shakespeare’s tales had come to slay her. Was it Jeffrey and his friends playing at being the monster of the sea?

  She opened her eyes, and dark shapes flitted about the room. The flap of wings grew more intense, followed by screeching and cawing. A shape flew at her, claws outstretched. With a cry, she tried to move, but the ropes binding her wrists only pulled tighter. More shapes filled the room, dark demons pouring out of the fireplace. Dust and ash exploded in the air, cutting out the sunlight as the demons danced around her.

  She let out a scream as she fought for freedom, but the ropes had morphed into serpents, thick, black serpents covered in spines that tore at her wrists.

  With a screech of laughter, the demons flew at her once more. She jerked sideways, and pain exploded in her head, then the darkness claimed her.

  *

  Hawthorne steered his horse toward the stables, dismounted, and handed the reins to the groom.

  “Give him a good rub down, Bartlett. I’m afraid I rode rather too hard today.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  As he crossed the stable yard, a familiar voice called out. “Ah, there you are!”

  Jeffrey stood flanked by his two friends, a satisfied smile on his face. Edward and Roger seemed a little worse for wear. Roger, the fool, still clutched the cause, an empty port bottle in his hand. When term time came around again and these three were packed off back to Eton, it couldn’t come too soon. At least the age gap meant he’d never have to suffer their company at Cambridge.

  “We’ve a surprise for you, Hawthorne,” Jeffrey said.

  Hawthorne sighed. “Shouldn’t you be at home?”

  Jeffrey lifted his shoulders. “I think you’ll like it. We’ve caught a wild animal.”

  Roger waved the bottle at him. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

  “Don’t you mean where she is?” Edward laughed.

  “I doubt she’s still there,” Roger said. “That little grub’s more slippery than the trout in your father’s stream.”

  Little grub…

  A pulse of fear rippled through him. His little changeling…

  “What have you done?”

  “Nothing she didn’t want,” Roger laughed.

  “She only agreed because she thought you were coming,” Edward added. “You’re as much to blame as us.”

  “Where is she?” Hawthorne drew out his riding crop.

  Jeffrey, the soberest of the three, at least had the wit to recognize danger.

  “The empty cottage near the barn. She’ll have freed herself by now…”

  Ignoring them, he broke into a sprint.

  *

  The cottage was silent save for the cawing of crows circling the chimney pot. Soon the sun would disappear behind the horizon and they’d descend to roost.

  Hawthorne pushed open the door.

  “Frederica?”

  The only response was cawing and scuffling from upstairs.

  “Frederica!”

  His words echoed off the stone walls, mocking him. Where was she?

  Fresh footprints formed a path to the staircase. He took the stairs two at a time until he reached the upper floor. The cackling and flapping came from behind a door.

  He pushed the door open. A rush of wings beat in the air and black shapes flew past him. He entered the room and recoiled at the sight before him.

  A young woman lay on the floor. She had been tied to a chair, her skin red and raw where she must have fought against her bonds.

  He dropped to his knees beside her. Her lips parted, and his body weakened with relief as a warm rush of air escaped them, tainted by the sour odor of liquor.

  She was alive but unconscious. Close to, her skin seemed like porcelain, as if one of Mama’s delicate figurines lay before him, the bloodless hue almost rendering her translucent. He ran a knuckle along her skin, its soft innocence so unlike the worldly aura of the women he’d experienced.

  A changeling child indeed, a faerie creature too good for the world.

  He ran his hands over her head. Sticky wetness adorned the side of her head where it had hit the ground. The chair must have fallen sideways and taken her with it. He withdrew his hand. His fingertips were smeared with blood.

  He picked at the bonds on her wrists. The ropes, stained with her blood, too, worked free, and he pulled her to him.

  “Frederica…” he breathed.

  A small groan escaped her lips and she stirred, shifting her body closer to him; the instinctive act of a creature which recognizes a source of warmth. Or did she recognize her savior?

  Savior indeed! What had he done to prevent this? Nothing. He’d watched while those three fools had taunted her, but not once had he prevented them. Had he paid attention, he’d have known what they were planning.

  This was his fault. If Father discovered what had happened to her, he’d pack Hawthorne off into the army.

  Damn! His future disintegrated in front of him as he watched the young woman in his arms stir to life. His best hope was to return her to her father’s house and leave her there to be discovered. He could deny all knowledge and secure his friends’ silence by threatening to tell Father about the stolen port.

  A course of action, albeit that of a coward. But what else could he do? One day, when he was independent of Father, he’d atone for his cowardice.

  With these thoughts in his mind, he picked up her body and carried her out into the open.

  Frederick Stanford’s home was a modest house, nestled between the Radley and Markham estates. Hawthorne had visited it only once, the night Frederica was born. Out of curiosity, he’d slipped out and hidden in the shadows, wanting to understand what happened when a child entered the world. He’d heard servants’ gossip about the dangers of childbirth and that Stanford was in danger of losing both his wife and child.

  As Hawthorne moved along the edge of the driveway, cradling that very child in his arms, some fourteen years later, the memories resurfaced, his four-year-old self hiding in the bushes, peering through the window, the echoes of screams from the house. But the anticipated cry of a child had not come. Instead, the deep wail of loss had thickened the air.

  Two men had stood in the parlor, Frederick Stanford and his father-in-law, comforting each other. The next day, Father had told Hawthorne over breakfast that Eleanor Stanford had been delivered of a daughter but died bringing her into the world.

  A coward he’d been then, skulking in the bushes to witness a man’s grief. And a coward
he was now, delivering that man’s daughter under cover of darkness.

  He brushed his lips against her forehead and placed her on the ground beside the main doors. Raising his hands, he pummeled on the doors, then sprinted back into the shadows.

  A vertical shaft of light appeared and stretched across the ground, picking out her form. A female voice screamed.

  “Fetch the master, quickly! It’s the little mistress!”

  A second silhouette appeared.

  “Frederica!” Stanford’s wail of anguish cleaved Hawthorne’s heart in two, the voice of a man who’d lost his beloved wife and now feared for his daughter.

  What made Hawthorne any better than Jeffrey and his friends, or even that reprobate, Roderick Markham, who lounged about the ducal estate and had inherited his father’s cruelty and sport for seeking gratification between the thighs of unwilling women?

  Stanford lifted his daughter in his arms and took her inside, calling for his horse to be saddled. Moments later, a figure rode past Hawthorne. Stanford, riding as if the devil were on his heels in his desperation to fetch the doctor.

  Hawthorne might exist above her in station, but when it came to honor and purity of the soul, he could never be her equal. Even now, his concern for her was tempered by his fear of discovery. A dark, little voice in the corner of his mind told him that as long as news of the incident did not reach Father’s ears, he could go up to Cambridge and secure his future.

  “Forgive me, little changeling.”

  Chapter Three

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, your father has asked for you.”

  Hawthorne looked up from inspecting his new gown, complete with mortar-board and hood emblazoned with the colors of Caius College Cambridge. Tomorrow, he’d be leaving to enjoy three years’ freedom studying law, subject neither to the whims of Father nor the rules of the regiment.

  “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know.” The footman bowed. “But Mr. Stanford is with him.”

  Stanford…

  Hawthorne dropped the gown on the floor. He should have known that justice caught up with all men eventually.

  *

  “Ah, there you are, boy.”