Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  He waved toward the decanter. “Why do you think I consented to the match between her and a wine merchant? She had her pick of the young men, but I saw how deeply Stanford loved her. The night she was taken from us, it broke him. As it broke me.”

  A sigh rattled from his chest, and he grimaced in pain, rubbing his left arm.

  “Frederick had lost his wife, and I was damned if I was going to see him lose his child.”

  “What happened to the child? Eleanor’s real child?”

  “She died. Stanford was too grief-stricken to understand he’d lost his daughter as well. Doctor Baines had sedated him.”

  “Then surely the doctor knows…”

  “Doctor Baines died of consumption some years ago. I paid him handsomely and swore him to silence. The very night the Almighty saw fit to take my daughter and grandchild, he delivered salvation in the form of that baby. Stanford believes her to be his, and I will not have him broken again.”

  “And her?”

  “I love her as if she were my flesh and blood.” Sir Benedict leaned forward, his expression grave. “And I expect you to honor your father’s memory by not revealing her true identity to anyone. Not least, her natural father. It would do more harm than good.”

  Sir Benedict was right. Sometimes the truth was best kept buried.

  But the truth had a way of revealing itself. Like water contained behind a wall, it eventually seeped through to conquer the barriers with which man sought to control nature.

  His breath caught at the memory of those words—Frederica’s words—uttered in the De Grecy aviary.

  His little changeling. Only now did it become clear what sort of changeling she was. Not a child from the otherworld delivered by the faeries, but one brought into the world by an act of violence. By the devil himself. The devil whose name taunted him, written in stark, black letters.

  He smoothed out the letter, wetted his thumb, and rubbed at the name until it faded into obscurity.

  He placed his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. Sir Benedict’s eyes met his, a plea in their expression. It was the expression a defendant bestowed on him in court, one accused of a deed committed out of desperation. One must always look beyond the deed to understand what had driven the perpetrator. Hawthorne could use his discretion for the good of society, a small gesture, but to one person it meant the world.

  And Frederica meant the world to Stanford and to Sir Benedict.

  “I’ll do anything you ask,” he said. “These papers shall remain under lock and key.”

  The old man’s body relaxed, the breath leaving his body in a sigh.

  “I have one more favor to ask, my boy.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Your father’s pledge. A dowry of five thousand is too much. Reduce it to one thousand.” Sir Benedict raised his hand to stem the protest on Hawthorne’s lips. “I’m not asking it because of her illegitimacy.”

  “Father made the pledge. And Stanford is aware of it.”

  “But it was not notarized,” Sir Benedict said. “It’s not legally binding.”

  “How can you profess to love her if you wish to reduce her fortune?”

  “Believe me, my boy, I do love her. While she was growing up, I petitioned the trustees of my estate to bestow a much larger fortune on her, and they refused to break the terms of entailment. But recently, I have understood how a fortune would bring her no good.”

  “But a fortune is her best chance at a prosperous and happy life.”

  “Surely you don’t think money the only key to happiness? Just look at Markham! He married a woman for her dowry and drove her into an early grave. That profligate son of his has been brought up to enjoy all the comforts and vices money can buy. Roderick’s even worse than his father. He’ll indulge in debauchery for years to come and will never suffer the benefit to one’s character brought about by a lack of funds. You cannot wish for Frederica to be tainted by such a lifestyle?”

  “All women must marry.”

  “Can you see her making a successful marriage?” Sir Benedict asked. “Name one man in the world who would both understand and love her. She sees the world through different eyes. Five thousand from you along with the thousand her father will bestow on her, would attract the attention of fortune hunters. I want her to have enough to enjoy independence, but not so much as to attract a man unable to appreciate her qualities. Qualities which you must admit are unique.”

  Unique indeed. The thought of Frederica being wasted on the fops which prowled the edges of society, her inquisitive mind stunted by the life of a woman destined to serve her husband in the home, confined by the chains of matrimony…

  Sir Benedict spoke the truth. Not a single man in the world valued her for what she was.

  Except you.

  “Very well,” he said. “But I must bear responsibility for the decision. I’ll reduce it on one condition, you tell Stanford it was my decision.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “She may never forgive the man responsible for reducing her fortune. An act of love should not be rewarded with hatred.”

  Sir Benedict smiled. “Your father would have been proud of you. I suppose it’s little matter to you whether she blames you, for you’re so far above her that she’d never enter your thoughts.” He reached for his cane and struggled to his feet. “I can rest in peace now I know someone other than her father will watch over her.”

  With a groan, the old man shuffled to the door.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Just age, my boy. I never believed I’d outlive your father. We often talked about it. He surpassed me in so much when we were together at Cambridge that I’d laughed about death being the only force he couldn’t conquer.”

  After the door closed, Hawthorne slumped in his chair. In one aspect, Sir Benedict couldn’t be more wrong.

  She would always reside in his thoughts.

  But his little changeling would soon hate him. He had just brought about Sir Benedict’s peace of mind, but at the cost of his own.

  A clatter echoed from outside, followed by a low cry.

  Hawthorne leapt to his feet and burst into the hallway. A prone figure lay on the floor, body twisted, mouth open as if straining for air, his right hand curled around his left arm. Lifeless eyes stared up at the chandelier which hung above him, the sunlight winking on the facets of the crystals.

  Sir Benedict had outlived his best friend by only a few days.

  *

  “Grandpapa…”

  Frederica averted her gaze from the coffin being lowered into the ground and closed her eyes, reliving the memory of the man: the smell of old cigars and port, the deep hum of his voice, and the sparkle of love in his eyes, even when he’d turned a disapproving look on her.

  That was how he should be remembered, not as a cold mass of flesh and bone concealed inside a wooden box.

  “Come, dearest.” Papa said. “It’s time to return home. Your grandpapa’s lawyers are waiting.”

  The body was still warm, yet the officials already circled around him, vultures wanting to pick over the remains, to secure profit and further their businesses.

  Papa held out his hand. He might appear stoic as the earth swallowed his father-in-law’s body, but his fingers trembled as they curled around hers. Grandpapa was the last remnant of the mother Frederica had never known, the woman Papa had loved so deeply that he’d refused to marry again.

  Perhaps one day Frederica might find someone to love, and to love her as deeply as Papa loved Mama. Someone prepared to defend her against society and accept her affliction.

  Someone like him.

  “Come on, Papa, we’ll face them together.”

  He helped her into the carriage. “My darling child, I’m so proud of you.”

  *

  “Curse him! How could he do this?”

  Papa’s body shook with indignation.

  The lawyer shifted uncomfortably. “Forgive me, Mr. Stanf
ord, but Earl Stiles is entitled to do what he wishes with his money. There was no legal obligation to bestow anything on your daughter. Be thankful he’s agreed to one thousand.”

  “It would have been better to bestow nothing at all, Mr. Stockton,” Papa scoffed. “To reduce a sum his father had promised, what clearer indication can he give of his contempt? He has ample funds, five thousand is nothing to him.”

  The teacups rattled as Papa slapped the desk. “Not only has he insulted my daughter, he’s insulted his father’s memory. To send you round to tell us the day I’ve buried her grandfather. I cannot articulate into words how this makes me feel. I’ll never forgive him, never!”

  The lawyer set his teacup aside. “The earl travels to London tomorrow. He’s asked you to wait on him before he leaves.”

  “For what purpose? To insult me further?”

  “Mr. Stanford, may I remind you the earl is under no obligation. The deed has yet to be signed. I would respectfully ask you to set aside your pride for your daughter’s sake and Sir Benedict’s memory. By all accounts, it was Sir Benedict who argued in her favor.”

  Papa sighed, his stance softening. He could never withstand confrontations. His wish for peace and harmony surpassed the materialism which festered among the upper classes.

  “Very well,” he sighed. “I’ll see him.” He nodded to Frederica. “Stay here, Rica. I will not suffer you to attend the earl.”

  The amount itself mattered little to Frederica. It was enough to ensure a comfortable life. But sorrow shuddered through her at the motivation behind Hawthorne’s action. The late earl must have valued her for a reason, perhaps due to his friendship with Grandpapa. But Hawthorne, in going directly against his father’s wishes, had demonstrated that, to him, she was worth considerably less.

  Chapter Eight

  Frederica packed her paints up and rinsed her brushes, stretching her arms to relieve the tension in her muscles. When focused on her artwork, she entered a different world. Her physical body lost its awareness of her environment and in her mind, she drifted into the painting, where rich reds pulsed against green. The contrasting colors gave the picture depth even though it had been painted on a flat surface. It was a trick her tutor had taught her, difficult to master, but after years of practice, she had achieved it.

  Even though winter had set in, there was always something interesting to paint, the leafless trees and strong trunks splitting into slimmer branches, reaching outward. When snow fell, the contrast of white against the dark branches lent a new richness—small diamonds sparkling as the sunlight caught the snow.

  And Samson… Hawthorne may have affirmed that Frederica was too far beneath him to be worthy of his notice, but he couldn’t prevent her from befriending his horse. Most people would view Samson as uninteresting to look at. But his coat, though unremarkable at first glance, bore dappled marks in subtle shades of gray and blue, growing darker closer to the tail. Had Mr. Stubbs, the famous painter, still been alive, he would have replicated Samson’s spirit in oil, and his portrait might have graced Hawthorne’s drawing room at Radley Hall. But the horse would have to settle for being immortalized in watercolor, hung in Frederica’s considerably less impressive parlor.

  Painting was not simply the means to replicate what she saw before her, but to represent her love for the subject or, in this instance, her love for Papa. It would always say more about Frederica herself than the subject she painted.

  It is what the likeness tells us about the artist which is of more interest to those with a true appreciation for art.

  Those words—his words—resurfaced in her memory, and she closed the lid of her paint box with a snap.

  Hawthorne always resided in her mind.

  Would she never be free of him?

  Her current painting, a Christmas gift for Papa, was almost finished. But before the two of them could celebrate together, their first holiday without dear Grandpapa, she faced the ordeal of the house party at Radley Hall.

  His residence.

  The day of Grandpapa’s funeral, Papa had returned from being summoned to Radley Hall, his attitude toward Hawthorne having mellowed. He’d argued, as the lawyer had, that she had no need for a large fortune.

  And he was right. All she needed was freedom and the opportunity to live an unrestricted life where she could openly express her joy at the natural world and not suffer the fear that her instances of madness would be viewed by those who wouldn’t understand. She had enough bestowed on her to achieve just that. While she had Papa, there would be someone to protect her, but with no other living relatives, her father had explained that Earl Stiles had repeated his promise to oversee her wellbeing.

  What distressed her most, was the fact that Hawthorne knew of her situation—perhaps even of her madness.

  She heard a rap at the door.

  “Frederica?”

  “Come in, Papa.” She turned the painting to face the wall.

  “Is it finished?”

  “Almost, but it’s supposed to be a surprise. No looking until Christmas.”

  “Very well.” He smiled. “Come, now. It’s time to go. You mustn’t keep the earl waiting.”

  “I don’t see why we have to go.”

  “Because he’s invited us. The company will be good for you. A house party is always to be preferred over the crush of a ball.”

  “Can’t you come with me?”

  “I’m sorry, Rica, love,” Papa said. “It’s my busiest time of year. I’m overseeing a large order for the Duke of Markham. I’ll join you once it’s concluded.”

  “But why would the earl invite us, invite me?”

  Papa took her hand. “Perhaps he wishes to help you widen your acquaintance before we go to London in the spring.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he’s a kind man, Frederica, and because London is never so daunting if one already has friends there. And since Lady Axminster’s gout has driven her to Bath, we must replenish your list of acquaintances from his list of guests.”

  His guests…

  Would that list include his mistress, the sophisticated Lady Swainson who Frederica had seen, more than once, riding along the drive to Radley Hall in her barouche?

  Her stomach tightened with apprehension. The image of him courting another sent a spike of agony through her heart. She had always prided herself in being fearless. Though the demons tormented her at night, she wasn’t afraid of a man or woman alive.

  Except him. That fear lurked within her, fear of the power he had over her body and the need which burned within her whenever she looked into his eyes. In order to conquer her fears, she must face them.

  “Very well, Papa,” she said. “I’m ready to go.”

  *

  “This is your room, miss. Dinner is at seven. Will you be requiring help with your evening gown?”

  “I can dress myself, thank you.”

  The maid dropped a curtsey, then scuttled away as if she couldn’t escape quickly enough.

  Frederica’s chamber was in a different part of the house to the other guests. The room was furnished elegantly enough, with a lit fire, but lacked the opulence of the rest of Radley Hall. Her trunk sat forlornly in a corner as if it, too, recognized the insult. The bare-paneled walls of the corridor outside were dotted with candle sconces. Functional, rather than decorative—as befitted the servants’ quarters.

  Was she so repugnant that he wanted her isolated? Perhaps he’d have her meals brought up so she might not offend the rest of the party with her presence.

  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. If he wanted to remind her of her inferiority, she’d be happy to disappoint him. Closing the door to her chamber, she moved across to her trunk, pulled out a dress of pale blue silk, and draped it over the back of a chair beside the fireplace. She glanced at the clock on the mantle shelf. Dinner was being served late, so she had time to visit the stables and see Samson. With luck, by the time she returned to dress for dinner, the wa
rmth from the fire would have removed the creases in her evening gown.

  *

  Hawthorne waved his valet out of the dressing room and finished buttoning his jacket. Rawlings was a good enough man, but the valet’s attention to detail rendered the ritual of dressing overly tedious. He could, however, be commended for his powers of observation as he was able to tell Hawthorne that Miss Stanford had arrived one hour ago and, shortly afterward, had been seen walking in the direction of the stables.

  After leaving his dressing room, he set off in her wake. Whether or not she wished to speak to him, given the events following her grandfather’s death, Hawthorne still owed it to Sir Benedict’s memory to ensure her wellbeing.

  And he owed it to her father. Stanford deserved to know the truth about Sir Benedict’s request to reduce her dowry, and Hawthorne had found himself unable to harbor yet another secret about Frederica. The day Stanford had buried his father-in-law, Hawthorne had offered to enter into partnership with his business, to ensure its continuation, with Frederica as the sole beneficiary. A regular income, secured under trust, would grant her more financial independence than a dowry ever could. Untouchable by a future husband, it would render her safe from fortune hunters. Having initially resisted, arguing that Hawthorne knew nothing about the business of wine other than how to drink it in vast quantities, Stanford had acquiesced, on the condition that Hawthorne left the business decisions to him.

  The snowflakes, which had scattered in the winter air, grew in density. Rather than melting, a light dusting covered the ground. The clouds hung overhead, their purple hue the promise of more snow to come.

  Ahead, a slender figure emerged from the stables, a book tucked under her arm. Even in the dwindling light of the winter afternoon, her hair glowed as if on fire. She waved and blew a kiss toward the stable.

  “Until next time, beautiful man!” she cried.

  A deep voice answered, and she waved again. Laughing, she set off in the direction of the kitchen gardens and disappeared.

  What game did she think she was playing?