Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  He crossed the stable yard and called out.

  “Who’s in there?”

  The head groom appeared at the door.

  “Bartlett! What the devil are you doing with Miss Stanford?”

  Bartlett glanced behind him. “I’m not supposed to say.”

  “Good God, man,” Hawthorne said. “In whose employ are you? Mine or hers?”

  The groom sighed and gestured toward the stall. “She came to see Samson.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “She helps groom him.”

  “And she asked you to keep it a secret?” Hawthorne asked. “You must know I wouldn’t be angry with her for visiting.”

  “She didn’t ask me for her sake, sir, but for Samson’s,” the groom said. “You’ve said yourself you’ll get rid of him if he didn’t improve. She wanted to make sure that doesn’t happen, and I was to tell her if you spoke of it again, so she might petition her father to purchase him.”

  Beyond Bartlett, the large Arabian stood placidly in his stall. Since the animal had thrown Hawthorne on de Grecy’s estate, he had grown calmer. He still suffered from high spirits, but Hawthorne had found himself increasingly able to control him. Until now, he’d attributed it to his own skills as a horseman.

  “She grooms him, you say?” he said.

  “And talks to him, sir,” the groom replied. “She’s brought Samson tidbits every time she’s visited, as well as ointment for my hands. It was her grandfather’s, but Sir Benedict has no need of it now, God rest his soul.” He held up his hands, sadness in his expression. “Such a kind young woman, if I may say so, sir. I don’t care what they say about her. You said the same about Samson here, and he’s turned out all right. They both just need a little understanding, that’s all. Kindred spirits, you might say.”

  The groom approached the horse and patted his flank. “Lately, our Samson’s been still enough around her that she’s been able to draw him. Ever so good she is, too. She gave me this.”

  Bartlett pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Hawthorne.

  It was a drawing of an eye. Hawthorne had always thought eyes were perfect circles, but the shape on the page resembled a plump almond. The white of the eye contrasted against the skin of the lids. The pupil, though dark, glowed from within with flecks of light where the white paper peeked through the pencil strokes. Thick lashes curled over the upper eyelid. Had anyone asked him, he’d have sworn Samson’s eyelashes were black, but they stood out, a soft grey against the dark pupil.

  How could a simple drawing of an eye convey so much?

  It was as if the very essence of Samson stared back at him.

  With a few pencil strokes, she had expressed her love and admiration for the animal.

  Bartlett was right. All Frederica needed was a little understanding, which she would not get from the sharks who circled the waters of society. In one aspect, at least, Sir Benedict had spoken the truth. No man alive would ever be worthy of her.

  *

  Fortified by a glass of sherry, Frederica soldiered into the dining room and headed to her place next to where a young man stood, his hands resting casually on the back of a chair.

  “Ah, my dinner companion.” His face broke into a smile.

  Pale, blue eyes glittered with merriment and an overindulgence of liquor. He held out his hand. She took it, and he brushed his lips against her fingers. Breeding bled though his voice and finely crafted features.

  He had the countenance of an angel, save for the mischief in his eyes, a marked contrast to the silent, darkly brooding figure at the head of the table.

  Their host gave the signal to sit. Frederica’s companion pulled out her seat for her with an air of dandified gallantry. “Fair lady,” he said. “I fear I’m the only eligible gentleman among the company. Unless, of course, you count our host, Earl Stiles.” He leaned forward and winked. “Which I don’t…”

  The man at the head of the table glowered in her direction, eyes so dark they looked black.

  “Neither do I,” she said bitterly.

  “Ah!” he whispered, “I have an ally. What sins have you committed to merit Stiles’s disapproval? I find it hard to believe such a virtuous-looking creature as yourself could have committed any transgression worthy of note.”

  “My lineage.”

  “My greatest sin is my behavior,” he said.

  “You’re fortunate, sir,” Frederica replied, sipping her wine. “You can modify your behavior, whereas the circumstances of my birth are permanent.”

  “Which are?”

  “My father is a merchant.”

  “Is he here tonight?”

  “He’s overseeing the delivery of a consignment of port.”

  “Ah! Then he must be Mr. Stanford.”

  “You know him?”

  “I’m practically related to him! He has the knack of sourcing the most delectable ports known to man. The pater is the reason for his absence.” He held out his hand. “Permit me to introduce myself properly. Roderick, Marquis of Dewberry. My father is the Duke of Markham.”

  “Are you not ashamed to be seen with the daughter of the trader who serves His Grace?”

  “Of course not! Women have qualities other than birth which I place great value on.”

  For a moment, his eyes took on a predatory look, then he blinked, and the expression was gone.

  “I look forward to getting better acquainted with you, Miss Stanford. Rest assured, you needn’t fear the disapprobation of Hawthorne Stiles when I’m here to mount your defense.”

  Perhaps she might enjoy the house party after all.

  *

  “Come, ladies, let us leave the men to their brandy.” Clara Swainson, with all the authority of a hostess, ushered the women out of the dining room.

  Frederica rose and followed at a distance.

  Roderick Markham gave her a conspiratorial wink. Over dinner, he’d been gallant, charming, animated in his conversation, and well-versed in wine. He appreciated a good claret more than anyone in the room, and told her she was to be envied having a father with such an extensive knowledge of wines. His gentle praise of Papa who, by all accounts, was revered by the duke for his tastes, was balm to her soul compared to the disapproving looks Hawthorne cast in her direction.

  Why had he invited her if only to make his dislike of her so obvious?

  She took a teacup from Lady Swainson and moved toward the French windows. Freedom and fresh air were only a few feet away, even if separated by glass.

  Whispers shuffled about the room, broken by the occasional chink of china as the ladies sipped their tea. Frederica remained set apart. After a few awkward remarks about the weather, the women exhausted their repertoire for conversing with the lower classes and left her alone.

  Only Lady Swainson made any genuine attempt at conversation, but Frederica resisted her efforts at friendship. She’d seen how the woman had looked at Hawthorne. And he had done the same toward her. Frederica could only compare herself to Lady Swainson and find herself wanting. Clara was the woman he desired. Frederica was merely a plaything to amuse himself with when he was a child, something to discard once he’d left the schoolroom.

  In which room had he placed Lady Swainson? Or did she reside in his bed?

  Perhaps as the evening progressed, Hawthorne would disappear, and Lady Swainson would find an excuse to absent herself from the party, then return later, a well-calculated minute or two after him.

  Jealousy was an ugly emotion; it ensnared the souls of the inadequate and inferior and destroyed their ability to find peace.

  “Is the company of the ladies too dull for your tastes?”

  The male voice came from behind. Holding a teacup in one hand and a plate of shortbread in the other, her new friend smiled, showing even, white teeth.

  “Lord Markham!”

  “Roderick, if you please.” He rolled his eyes in mock indignation. “I thought we were friends.”

  “We’ve
just met.”

  “Then let my offering seal our friendship forever.” He held out the plate. “There isn’t much about Stiles to praise, but his cook makes a tolerable shortbread. I brought it for you.”

  A familiar smell lingered on his breath.

  “I rather think you need it more than I, Lord Markham. How much brandy have you had?”

  “You impugn my honor,” he said. “But one must take advantage when our skinflint host deigns to free it from the incarceration of his drinks cabinet.”

  “Should you speak of him so?”

  “You should hear what he says about ladies. He may be gallant in polite society, but beneath that exterior lies the heart of a rake. The pater always said he was a slippery devil.”

  Frederica took the shortbread and nibbled at a corner. Too sweet for her, but at least it removed the sour taste of Hawthorne’s disapproval.

  “What does he say about ladies?”

  “You wouldn’t expect me to divulge what gentlemen say away from ladies’ delicate ears, would you Miss Stanford?”

  “I’m no lady,” she said. “Neither are my ears that delicate.”

  “Ha!” Markham laughed. “Stiles was right.”

  “What has he said?”

  “He views you as some sort of wild animal.”

  Not only did Hawthorne think her unfit for his company, but he shared his views over port and brandy.

  “I rather wonder at him inviting me here,” she said, sipping her tea to hide her distress, “if he finds me so repugnant.”

  Markham moved and touched her hand. “I, for one, am very glad he did. Why Stiles prefers the company of one such as Lady Swainson when there are more delectable objects in the room, defeats me.”

  The rest of the men entered the room and milled about. The air shimmered around Hawthorne as he gravitated toward Lady Swainson.

  Frederica’s skin prickled, and she lifted her gaze to see Hawthorne staring directly at her. His focus shifted to Lord Markham, and his body stiffened.

  Lady Swainson held out her hand, and Hawthorne took it. He smiled at her, but his eyes remained hard and cold.

  “Perhaps Lady Swainson can give him what he wants,” Frederica said, wincing at the bitterness in her voice.

  “Of that I’m sure,” Markham replied. “Most likely a good, hard fuck against the drawing room wall.”

  Frederica’s body convulsed, and the tea caught in her throat. Choking, she lifted her hand to her mouth, dropping the cup. Markham caught it as if he’d anticipated the move.

  “You there!” Markham gestured to a footman at the door. “Fetch a glass of water.”

  She barely registered the voices in the room. Apart from one.

  “Stand back!” Hawthorne’s voice resounded, rumbling with the undertones of a storm.

  Two men stood before her. One dark like a thundercloud, eyebrows knitted together in a frown. The second, with all the countenance of a sunny afternoon, gave her a gallant smile and patted her on the back.

  “There!” he soothed. “All better now. Didn’t I say I’d take care of you?”

  “Markham, a word if you please,” Hawthorne urged.

  Markham’s eyes widened. “Would you relieve the lady of her protector?”

  “Hardly that,” Hawthorne scoffed, curling his lip in distaste.

  “Come, Miss Stanford,” Markham said, “permit me to take care of you.”

  Ignoring the low growl rumbling in Hawthorne’s throat, Frederica let Markham escort her to a seat. Though it took her into the center of the room, further away from her means of escape, she drew satisfaction from witnessing Hawthorne’s irritation.

  Chapter Nine

  The evening over, Frederica was only too relieved to retire. The onset of fatigue, which always plagued her when in the company of strangers, had overwhelmed her. Markham’s witticisms about Hawthorne had at first amused her, but when he became imbibed with too much brandy, they’d taken a sour note.

  Pleasant company, but rather too fond of liquor. He’d clearly inherited the habit from his father, the duke, who, by all accounts, bore responsibility for the majority of Papa’s income given the quantity he ordered regularly.

  The maid bobbed a curtsey as Frederica arrived at her chamber door. At night, the passageway looked even bleaker. A shaft of light stretched across the floor from the room opposite her chamber.

  “Is another guest in this part of the house?”

  “No, miss,” the maid said. “That’s where I’m sleeping while you’re here.”

  Her words confirmed Hawthorne’s view of her. But what did she care? This maid would likely prove to be better company than the other guests, except perhaps Roderick Markham, who had, at least, behaved as if he enjoyed her company.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jenny.”

  She fussed about the room, lighting candles and turning back the bedsheets.

  “Would you like me to help you undress, miss?”

  “No thank you, Jenny,” Frederica replied. “You must be tired.” The maid looked barely out of childhood.

  “Very good, miss.” Jenny crossed the room and drew the curtains. “Mrs. Briggs, the housekeeper, told me to look after you special. She was very particular about the windows, said to make sure you had fresh air.”

  She lifted the sash, and a breeze floated into the room, dissipating the thickening blanket of dread which always threatened to engulf Frederica when she had been inside too long.

  “Mrs. Briggs said I must leave the door open for you as well, miss. I hope I’ll be able to give satisfaction.”

  “Thank you, Jenny.” Frederica gave her a smile of reassurance. “I feel well-looked after already.”

  The maid bobbed another curtsey. “If you need anything during the night, you’re to call out. Goodnight, miss.”

  *

  Bloody Markham! What the devil was he playing at?

  Hawthorne waved his valet away and adjusted his jacket. Voices drifted through the house as his guests stirred into consciousness, accompanied by the footfall of servants.

  Despite the pleasures Clara’s body had afforded him last night, she possessed one fatal flaw which rendered her efforts futile.

  She was not Frederica.

  And now Markham was sniffing around his little changeling.

  Roderick Markham had always been a sly bastard, displaying the bully’s cowardice in trying to reign over those he considered weak and therefore easy prey. The archetypical child who tortured small creatures, just like his father.

  At Eton, he’d fancied himself Hawthorne’s rival ever since Hawthorne had pulled him off that poor maid. Hawthorne had given her sanctuary in his room, which had resulted in his suspension. Though he’d never known for certain, he’d always suspected that Roderick had ratted him out to his housemaster.

  What on earth had possessed Mrs. Briggs to seat Frederica next to Roderick at dinner? Ross Trelawney would have made a better dinner companion, but as he was courting that bland de Grecy heiress, the housekeeper must have thought it improper to seat him next to Frederica. As a result, that self-centered debaucher had secured Frederica’s attentions. Worse, she’d come to life, giving Hawthorne a glimpse of the animated creature she might have been among the company of others, had she not suffered the incident of her childhood.

  Perhaps that was his punishment, to sit by and watch while the very worst of men courted her.

  Why couldn’t she see the folly of her actions? Markham didn’t possess an honorable drop of blood in his veins. Too many maids left the duke’s employ within months of arriving. Hawthorne only had to read the letter concerning Frederica’s birth to understand why.

  In a lapse of judgement last night, he’d warned Markham to stay away from her. So now, of course, Markham’s attention toward her had increased, first due to the pleasure from needling Hawthorne and second, out of curiosity.

  He should never have invited her.

  Where was she now? He’d had no rep
orts during the night from Mrs. Briggs or the young chambermaid she’d assigned to her.

  Securing his buttons, he smoothed down the material of his jacket unnecessarily, for Rawlings had pressed it that morning. He headed to the breakfast room.

  The clatter of porcelain told him he’d arrived too late. Which of his guests was up this early?

  A solitary figure stood by the serving table, the morning sun illuminating her face, speaking in a low voice to the footman in attendance. Hawthorne found himself envying the man for being close enough to look into those lovely eyes. What color would they be in the sunlight?

  Her body stiffened as Hawthorne walked in, the hem of her gown trembling as if a breeze ran through the room. She turned her clear gaze his way. The warmth in his blood burst into flame.

  Curse his body!

  “I didn’t think to see a guest about this early,” he said coolly in an effort to fight his feelings.

  “We commoners cannot spend our time idling in bed in anticipation of being waited on,” she countered.

  The force of her hostility fanned the flames inside him. He sat at the head of the table and waved the footman over. “I trust you slept well, Miss Stanford.”

  “Perfectly, thank you.”

  She resumed her attention on her breakfast, but rather than eat, she pushed the food around her plate. Her body vibrated with suppressed emotion, and he waited for the outburst. The clatter of metal against porcelain signaled the release as she dropped her knife on the plate.

  “Why did you reduce my dowry?”

  The question was unexpected.

  “I fail to see that’s your concern, Miss Stanford.”

  She waved a dismissive hand at him. “I don’t care for the money, but I’m curious to comprehend the message you intended to convey by reneging on the promise your father had made to Grandpapa? Did you intend to insult me, his memory, or both?”

  “I deemed it prudent at the time.”

  “Prudent? Is that all you can say?” she cried. “Does it matter so much to you, to draw the line between me and the rest of the world?”

  “Of course not.”

  She bit her lip and lifted her teacup. Hawthorne saw the action for what it was, an attempt to calm herself.