by Royal, Emily
Three men waited in the morning room, Father in his chair by the fireplace, and two guests. Hawthorne’s stomach clenched in anticipation of punishment as two pairs of eyes turned their attention on him.
Frederick Stanford and his father-in-law, Sir Benedict Langton.
“Sit down,” Father said.
Hawthorne took the chair beside Father. For once, the safest position in the room was the closest to his parent.
“Mr. Stanford has something to ask you.”
Stanford’s brow wrinkled with concern. “My daughter was involved in an accident five days ago,” he said. “I wondered if you saw anything last Saturday.”
An accident…
Hawthorne shook his head.
“I told you, Stanford,” Father interjected, “my son knows nothing about it.”
Sir Benedict touched his son-in-law’s shoulder, and Hawthorne’s heart tightened at the gesture of affection.
“Was she harmed?” To his ear, Hawthorne’s voice sounded high-pitched, but his companions failed to notice.
Sir Benedict leaned forward. “My granddaughter appeared on her doorstep unconscious, drunk, with lacerations on her wrists and ankles, and scratches on her face.”
“Has she recovered?”
“Physically, yes,” Sir Benedict said. “But she’s been unable to speak until this morning. She jumps at the slightest noise and has gained a fear of confined spaces.” He turned to Stanford and patted his hand. “We’re optimistic she’ll recover, and we must be thankful she was not violated.”
“I want those ruffians found,” Stanford interrupted. “I cannot let such treatment go unpunished. She’s my only child.”
Shame and guilt warmed Hawthorne’s cheeks, guilt which surely Sir Benedict would recognize even if Stanford, in his distressed state, could not.
“As you see,” Father said, “my son knows nothing. I’m sorry for your daughter, Stanford, and I wish her a complete recovery. I will, of course, do everything I can to ensure it doesn’t happen again. I’ll have my man scour the estate.”
“Thank you,” Stanford said, “but…”
“Leave it be, Frederick,” Sir Benedict interrupted. “It’s as the child said this morning. She drunk herself into a stupor and was taken advantage of by gypsies. I always warned you she’d acquire a taste for your wine.”
Hawthorne’s shame intensified. For some reason, she hadn’t ratted out his friends. Or him.
“You won’t punish her?” Hawthorne asked.
“No,” Stanford said. “She’s suffered enough.” He stood, scraping the chair against the floorboards. “I’ve left her alone too long. It’s time I returned.”
“She’ll be fine, Frederick,” Sir Benedict said. “You left her painting in the garden, she’s calmer when outside.”
“Nevertheless.” Stanford said. “Are you coming, Benedict?”
“I’ll join you later, Frederick. I wish to discuss something with Stiles.”
Hawthorne leapt to his feet. “I can show Mr. Stanford out.”
He followed Stanford into the hallway.
“Will she recover, sir?”
Stanford’s features softened with gratitude. “You’re kind to ask, Viscount Radley. I believe she will. The fresh air is already doing wonders for her constitution, and her occupation with her paint box will cure her mental state.”
He smiled. “But now’s not the time for melancholy. I hear you’re off to Cambridge. You must be looking forward to it. You’re at Caius College?”
“Yes.”
“Your father was at St Johns, as was every Earl Stiles since the sixteenth century.”
“And Sir Benedict, of course,” Hawthorne replied. “Father often talks of how he helped him during his freshman year. Rumor has it that St Johns college is so rich that you could walk from St Johns, Cambridge, to its namesake in Oxford without stepping off their land.”
“But you had no wish to follow your ancestors and attend St Johns?”
“Traditions should not be maintained merely for the sake of it,” Hawthorne said. “Life’s riches can only be savored when new tastes are introduced. Otherwise, one’s palate would grow lazy.”
“Your father wouldn’t agree,” Stanford said.
“Then he’s wrong, and history is against him. One is not remembered for following in the footsteps of others, but in striving for betterment. In celebrating, not hiding one’s differences. Only then can we distinguish ourselves.”
“You have the means to distinguish yourself, Viscount Radley,” Stanford sighed. “Make the most of your time at Cambridge.”
I will.
Stanford bowed and disappeared down the drive, his body tightening with determination as he left to tend to his daughter.
I’ll do it for you, little changeling. Your silence has bought my freedom.
Crossing the hallway, Hawthorne froze at Father’s voice coming from the morning room. He moved closer to the door and held his breath.
“I tell you, Benedict, my son thinks nothing of the girl. She’s just a child. Though I cannot deny he’s developing a taste for women.”
“Like father, like son?”
“My rakehell days are over,” Father said. “My constitution couldn’t stand it.”
“Your heart still troubles you?”
“A little.”
Hawthorne heard the chink of glass and the soft musical notes of liquid being poured.
“Here, drink this. Whisky’s supposed to be good for the heart.”
“Not the amount you drink, Benedict.”
After a pause, Hawthorne heard Father sigh. “Should we tell Stanford the truth?”
“No, George. It would destroy him. And her. Some secrets should stay buried.”
“But they have a way of unearthing themselves. Weeds have the knack of sprouting where one least expects it.”
Hawthorne’s chest tightened. What secret were they harboring? How did it involve Stanford and his daughter?
“Weeds? You see Frederica as a weed?”
“If you’re worried about her dowry, Benedict, then don’t. I’ll honor my promise. Her mother died in my care, after all. But I often ask myself why you’re so fond of her.”
“Blood isn’t everything, George. Despite her origins, I see her as my granddaughter. She’s a bright little thing, kind, spirited, and ideal prey for the young men who prowl society like feral cats.”
Father spluttered, and Hawthorne could almost imagine the whisky dribbling from his lips. “I trust you’re not referring to my son.” Indignation dripped from his words. “He’d never touch someone of her station.”
How ironic that Father, in the first defense of Hawthorne that he could remember, did so by insulting his little changeling.
Sir Benedict sighed. “Nevertheless, it would be prudent to tell Hawthorne about her. After all, he stands to be trustee.”
“He’s not mature enough, Benedict. And despite my weak heart, I have no intention of joining my late wife just yet. Perhaps when he’s returned from Cambridge.”
“Caius, eh?”
Father sighed. “My son was never one to follow in his father’s footsteps. I decided to let him have his little rebellion. He’ll be constrained enough when he inherits the earldom.”
A chair scraped back, signaling the end of the conversation, and Hawthorne darted toward the stairs.
A mystery surrounded Frederica Stanford. His little changeling was not what she seemed.
*
On the day Hawthorne left for Cambridge, the morning dawned bright. A myriad of color shone in the sunlight as if to bid him farewell on his way to freedom. The carriage drove past the beech hedge lining the driveway from Radley Hall. Muted tones of green formed the palette, interspersed with accents of red and yellow.
Colors to lift the spirits. Colors which only an artist’s eye could fully appreciate.
One like hers.
As if his thoughts conjured up the image of a sprite, a figure came into
view. Clutching a sketchbook under one arm, she drifted along the hedgerow.
She had lost weight, but he’d have recognized her anywhere. Tones of red and ochre reflected off her hair which hung loosely round her shoulders.
The driver slowed the pace, and at the very moment the carriage passed, she looked up and their eyes met.
The pull of recognition forced the air from his lungs. Her eyes reflected the potency of their connection, and the colors faded until only one remained. A rich, sea-green, longing and understanding shimmering in their depths.
He opened his mouth to speak, but words would be insufficient to convey his feelings. Before he drew breath, the carriage had passed. He looked out of the window. She had resumed walking, almost as if he were not there, but before she reached the end of the lane, she turned her head and watched as he rode out of her life.
Father was right. They came from vastly different backgrounds. Hawthorne was destined to become Earl Stiles with all the traditions and constraints of that role. He would return with his degree, settle into society, establish a mistress, and find a wife to secure an heir to continue the cycle. His little changeling was a wild rose who would ramble across the countryside, destined to pursue whatever fate she chose.
In all likelihood, they would never meet again.
Chapter Four
Dorset, England
1814
The buzz of voices spiraled around the ballroom, morphing into caws and screeches. Frederica closed her eyes against the assault of gaudy silks, colors which occurred only in hothouses, the women wearing them trying to emulate nature’s beauty but failing. None of them would possess the ability to see properly, to understand the subtle hues which adorned the landscape.
The images assaulted her mind, black shapes circling around her, feathers and arrows of black and red, beaks wide open, sharp edges ready to tear her to pieces while she lay powerless to prevent it, her wrists burning…
“Frederica!”
The voice returned her to the ballroom with a jolt. Pale blue eyes surrounded by a bland, colorless face, regarded her with curiosity and want of understanding.
“Are you all right? Shall I fetch Lady Axminster?”
She took a breath, the air partly dissipating the demons. “No, thank you Alice. I’m well now.” As Grandpapa’s cousin, Lady Axminster made the ideal chaperone, but her deafness rendered conversation impossible. Her attentions, though well-meant, only added to the thickness of the air which Frederica suffered every time she was indoors.
“I imagine the prospect of spending an evening among society must be overwhelming,” Alice said.
Frederica smiled at her companion, bestowing a bland upturn of the lips, the uniform of a lady, to conceal the turmoil underneath.
Alice de Grecy was harmless enough and meant no disrespect, but as the daughter of a viscount, she was far above Frederica in station. The ton would always look down on men like Papa who earned their fortune, rather than inherited it. In the eyes of society, idle frivolities were valued more greatly than hard work or compassion.
The music stopped and the dancers dissipated, ladies simpering on the arms of gentlemen, pleading with their bodies for attention, while the men who were lucky enough to effect escape from grasping females, sought sanctuary at the card tables.
“Viscount Radley!” The announcement was followed by a murmur of anticipation.
Hawthorne…
The atmosphere shifted, and heat pricked Frederica’s skin. A familiar sharp itch lingered at her wrists, and she adjusted her gloves, fighting the urge to relieve it with her fingernails.
“I can’t think why you insist on wearing those thick gloves,” Alice said. “They must make you so hot in this weather.”
“I–it’s a fancy I have,” Frederica replied.
“Not very a la mode,” Alice said. “Don’t you know the best way to secure a man’s attention is to be fashionable?”
“What, by following the crowd? Doesn’t that render one invisible?”
“Invisibility is a virtue, Frederica. Once we marry, we’re expected to blend into our husbands’ backgrounds.”
“As if we no longer exist? What about definition of character?”
“A woman is never valued for her character. When we marry, we become the property of our husbands. But while we vie for a man’s attention, we must possess the talent of achieving the delicate balance between prominence and inconspicuousness.”
Alice rose to her feet with all the elegance of a well-schooled lady. “Come on, we’ll not fill our dance cards sitting by the terrace doors. I can’t understand why you insist on being so far from the center of the room.”
“I like fresh air.”
Alice huffed. “Fresh air! I suppose you must be forgiven for your country upbringing.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be close to nature.”
“If I want a relationship with nature, all I have to do is look at one of your paintings. In that aspect, at least, I envy you. How you manage to portray such good likenesses is beyond me. I imagine every member of society is clamoring to see one of your works on their parlor walls.”
Frederica smiled at Alice’s praise. “I trust you’re not alone in that sentiment. I hope to earn a living from my work.”
“Good lord!” Alice exclaimed. “You’d paint for trade? A lady only paints for accomplishment. Though I suppose you’re not really a lady. Does your papa object to your fancies?”
“He encourages it.” Frederica smiled at the memory, of how, with Papa’s gentle persuasion, she had sought color, air, and light and found a pathway out of the darkness. As soon as he’d seen the restorative effect of drawing and painting, Papa had procured the best quality artist materials for her.
“Perhaps I could prevail upon you to paint some of Father’s birds?” Alice said. “He has some exquisite specimens in his aviary.”
“No!” Frederica cried.
Alice recoiled, and Frederica placed a hand on her companion’s.
“Forgive me, Alice. I’m not fond of birds.”
“A portrait, then?” Alice asked. “I’ve always wanted my likeness taken, though my stepmother tells me I’m too vain.”
“Isn’t vanity a quality prized in society?”
Alice smiled. At least the vanity bred into her hadn’t completely obliterated her good nature. “In which case, my dear friend, let us fuel each other’s vanity. My pride in my appearance and yours in your accomplishment. And it would enable us to further our friendship, for I intend to ask Father if you may come to our house party next month.”
A house party… Rooms full of people, chattering masses, the insipidity of witless words thickening the air, choking her…
Alice gave her a nudge. “Sit up! Now’s the time for a woman’s prominence to come to the fore.”
A tall, silent form stood in the center of the ballroom, his stance emanating a casual disregard of his surroundings. Had she not seen the dance floor empty five minutes before, Frederica might have thought the ballroom boasted a marble sculpture. He dominated the room, a treacherous rock in the sea which the waves were drawn to, dashing into pieces against him, before reforming only to approach him again, a never-ending cycle of relentless worship.
Slowly, he turned, and their eyes met. The warm admiration which she’d once felt for him had matured, along with her body, into a burning need and a wicked pulse of warmth radiated through her.
Roaring and cackling rushed through Frederica’s head. Her corset grew tight, and she fought for breath.
She had to escape, away from the rush of heat and beating of wings, from the demons which waited in every room. She leapt to her feet and slipped outside onto the terrace. The fog of terror dissipated, and the colors returned. The bright, fresh green of the finely manicured lawn surrounded by the richer, deeper shades of the plants lining the borders of the garden, interspersed with accents of color from early summer flowers.
Colors to defend her a
gainst the black.
Alice appeared at her side, laughing.
“Viscount Radley may be a catch, but I’ll swear he’s never made a woman swoon so badly that she has to run from the room!”
Foolish, frivolous Alice thought she had fainted at the sight of a man! But Frederica could use that folly to her advantage. A fanciful lady was always acceptable in London society. A madwoman, however, would be reviled.
“He’s a fine catch for any woman,” Alice continued, “though I fear with your social position, you could never aspire to him. Which is a pity. I hear he’s looking for a wife. One would put up with a good deal of invisibility to be owned by him.”
Heat rose in Frederica’s cheeks, shame at her flight from the ballroom, and at her body’s wanton reaction.
“I believe you’re blushing!” Alice laughed good-naturedly. “Your secret is safe with me, but only if you accompany me back inside. I’m eager to fill my dance card. Mr. Trelawney has secured me for the first dance, but I’ve not seen him yet.”
Frederica took Alice’s arm. Returning to the ballroom was the lesser evil when the alternative was to have Alice de Grecy gossip about her.
*
As Hawthorne surveyed the ballroom, he caught a flash of red. Not the gaudy silks which hammered at a man’s senses, but a richer, warmer hue, one which a man could never replicate.
He’d recognize that color anywhere, even though he’d not seen it for five years.
But when he blinked, she had disappeared.
She must have been a product of his imagination, brought forth as a result of Father’s revelation last week. Despite Hawthorne’s recent ascendance into the magistracy, Father had shown little pride in his achievement. Hawthorne had berated him over his lack of affection, comparing him unfavorably to Stanford, pointing out that he, at least, acted the parent, showing unconditional love for his daughter.
And what had father said?
She’s not Stanford’s daughter.
He’d then refused to elaborate, dismissing Hawthorne with a cursory wave.
“Ah, Hawthorne, old chap. I wondered whether you’d be here tonight.”
Hawthorne’s friend, Ross Trelawney, approached, holding two glasses of champagne. Ross had entered Cambridge the same time as Hawthorne, and they’d studied law together. More intelligent than most men of Hawthorne’s acquaintance, Ross had expanded his father’s businesses and earned a fortune.