by Royal, Emily
“I shouldn’t have said nothing!” Fear etched the maid’s features, fear of the beating she’d get if the housekeeper heard she’d been gossiping with the guests.
Frederica took her hand, seeking comfort in the maid’s own need for it. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I–I don’t know…”
“You can trust me, Jenny. I’m not like the other guests.”
“I overheard Sir Benedict,” Jenny said. “Sore angry he was, asking the master to honor his request, and the master refusing. But Mrs. Briggs caught me and shooed me away before I could hear anything else.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard mention of money and a letter. They argued over the letter.” Her cheeks grew pink, and she lowered her gaze before continuing in a small voice. “And a name.”
“What name?”
“Yours, miss.”
Frederica’s stomach jolted.
A voice called out in the distance, and Jenny stiffened.
“Coming, Mrs. Briggs!” She smoothed down her apron. “Begging your pardon, miss, I must go, but I’ll return once I’ve tended to Lord Markham’s room.”
“Lord Markham?”
“The master sent him and his friends away. In an awful temper he was, too, so Mrs. Briggs said. The room is to be cleaned to remove all traces of him. Master’s orders.” She bobbed a curtsey, then fled.
Frederica drew the blanket around her. The cold of the room was nothing compared to the ice which threaded through her veins.
Hawthorne, the man she had worshipped as a child, had not only banished her friends, but he’d been responsible for Grandpapa’s death.
What had they argued about? What was in the letter Jenny had spoken of? Did he still have it in his study?
While he dined with the guests he valued, the guest he despised could at least attempt to find that letter. Perhaps it might explain why he hated her so much.
Chapter Twelve
As Frederica approached Hawthorne’s study, the bustle of activity told her the meal had begun. The servants would ferry dishes to and fro, replacing dirty with clean as the guests ate their way through a multitude of courses. No one would take interest in Frederica. Her chance had come.
A door opened and shut in the distance, accompanied by a clatter or porcelain, a servant in a hurry to clear the crockery. She froze before the sound faded, and she reached the study door and curled her fingers round the handle. The door creaked in protest as she pushed it open, perhaps wishing to betray her. But what did she care if he caught her? He’d meddled with her life, and she had a right to know why.
A squat, mahogany desk dominated the room, topped with leather decorated with gold leaf around the edges. Two pedestals supported the thick wooden top, each with four drawers. The desk had been neatly arranged, not a paper out of place. An inkpot and quill rested beside a notebook, and a letter opener sat parallel to the spine of the book, as if a servant had taken pains to place it in an aesthetically pleasing pattern for his master. The smell of ink, tobacco, and whisky bled from the very fabric of the desk.
Grandpapa would have spent many evenings here with the late earl. She could almost believe his aroma was in the room, that blend of cigar smoke and musty spices which had always lingered on his jacket.
Her body tightened with loss. Had he died here, perhaps sitting on the wingback chair in front of the desk, while pleading her case to the stone-hearted man who now reigned over the estate? She set her candle down and began searching.
Half an hour later, her search had proven fruitless, having rifled through every part of the desk, save the upper left drawer which was locked. She’d found nothing of consequence, just ledgers detailing servants’ wages, legal documents concerning the late earl’s last will and testament, and trustee documents for the Radley estate, none of which related to her.
She picked up the letter opener, and before regret and conscience could assault her, she jammed the blade into the gap above the locked drawer and twisted it. With a creak, the gap opened a fraction. Pushing the blade in, she levered it up, and a sliver of wood broke free, and the drawer flew open.
Inside was another notebook containing copies of the estate accounts and a wad of pound notes. But beneath the notebook was a sheaf of papers tied together with a red ribbon. Her eyes wandered over the document on the top, and she froze on reading the name halfway down, written in a cursive script.
Frederica Eleanor Stanford.
She pulled her gloves off and spread the documents on the desk, her fingers trembling as she leafed through each sheet.
The first document was a note from the late earl promising to bestow a sum of five thousand pounds on her in the event of her marriage. It was dated November 1795, not long after she had been born.
Why had he bestowed such a sum on her? Her skin crawled at the only plausible explanation. Men of wealth and title granted money to children to assuage their guilt, payments to remove unwanted by-blows from their lives and consciences.
Dear Lord, did that mean Hawthorne was her brother? Was that why he’d reduced the sum? To punish her for being his father’s bastard?
The next document was a letter penned in an irregular hand. The heartfelt words drew her in.
Sir, forgive me for abandoning you, but I must tender my resignation forthwith. Mary nears her confinement, and I must tend to her. She suffers from melancholy, and I fear for her life and that of the child. I feel responsible, for I secured her position with… Someone had scratched out the next few words. And it’s as if I was the one who violated her. Mary’s mind is broken. She says she will kill the child as soon as it’s born. She tried to throw herself down the stairs again and must be watched. My mother is old and cannot watch her all the time.
Please forgive me, sir, but I have no choice. My sweet cousin has been ruined. I cannot bear to see the hate in her. She says that any child of his deserves to be strangled. But even the child of a monster deserves to be loved. Perhaps once I am assured of Mary’s health and the child’s safety, I can return, but I would understand if the disgrace would prevent it.
The words blurred as tears filled Frederica’s eyes. A young girl taken advantage of by her employer, who raped and abandoned her. A child born of hatred…
A child of rape…
The next document was written in a clearer hand, and her heart jolted in recognition. Even if the letterhead of Sir Benedict Langton had been missing, she couldn’t mistake the distinctive way Grandpapa curled the tails of each letter “f”.
My dear Stiles,
I have secured an appointment with Stockton to draw up a document for the settlement and can only express my gratitude once more for all you have done. Were I able to bequeath a portion of my own estate, I would, but I regret it’s entailed away from the female line and the trustees have refused my request.
I would ask you say nothing of this to Stanford. He still grieves for Eleanor, and the comfort the child gives him is but a thin thread binding him to reason. I fear for his mind if he discovers our deception. He would cast the child out if he discovered her true identity. For myself, though nothing can bring my beloved daughter back, I am not yet so cold-hearted as to believe that an unwanted orphan is less deserving of compassion than the man who believes her to be his own.
I admire your generosity, my friend, in taking young Mary in. Though she died in your care, Doctor Baines assures me nothing could have prevented it. Your conscience may pain you, but it is a credit to you, and I find myself continually grateful to have you as a friend. I trust that young Hawthorne will, one day, show a similar degree of compassion to his subordinates as his father does.
I pray Mrs. White can be trusted to be discreet, but she strikes me as a most admirable woman and has offered to deliver this letter to you in secret.
Yours ever,
B.L.
The final document was another letter from Grandpapa, dated almost a week later than the first. She blinked, and a fat t
ear splashed onto the paper, sitting proud for a moment before dissolving to leave a dark stain.
Stiles
The worst is over, and I should be able to leave Stanford’s side in a day or so. He appears to have made a full recovery, and Doctor Baines assures me he can only improve. He dotes on the child. She looks nothing like Eleanor, of course. I only hope she has not inherited her natural father’s temperament. Her eyes are, I must presume, the color of her mother’s. I pray she will not share that poor young woman’s fate, but I believe she will thrive in Stanford’s care. I have never seen a man love a child more. It would break his heart if he discovered the truth.
Her fortune will help secure her safety, and for that, I am ever gratefully
yours,
B.L.
Frederica collapsed onto the chair, and the papers fluttered to the floor.
The tears did not come. Neither did the pain. A frost spread through her body, and she closed her eyes, wanting to deprive her senses and forget what she had seen.
*
Footsteps tapped on the floor outside the study accompanied by male voices. She picked up the papers and rammed them into the drawer, slamming it shut. With luck, her handiwork wouldn’t be discovered until after she’d returned home.
The voices stopped outside the door, the first unmistakable, resonating through her body as if it still yearned for him in spite of everything.
“Fancy a brandy, Ross?”
“Best not, old chap. I think your guests have been enjoying rather too much of your drink this week.”
“Christ, yes.” She heard a deep sigh. “Bloody bastard. Should have been strangled at birth. The father’s no better, one of the most loathsome men to walk this earth. With luck, I’ll not suffer the misfortune of seeing either of them again after today.”
“Is that likely?”
“We move in different circles, Ross. Come on, I need a brandy, but I also need you to ensure I don’t finish the bottle on my own.”
The door handle moved again, and Frederica’s stomach churned. What would Hawthorne do if he discovered her in the study?
A third voice joined the others, then Hawthorne sighed.
“Oh, bloody hell, that’s all I need.”
“Weren’t you expecting Stanford?” Ross asked.
“Yes, but I was hoping he’d arrive after she’d slept off the liquor. Come on, you occupy him in the morning room, I’ll send Mrs. Briggs to see if she can make her presentable.”
The footsteps faded into the distance.
After waiting a moment, Frederica tiptoed to the door and pulled it ajar, her body trembling.
Papa was in Radley Hall. But how could she face him knowing who and what she was? What had Grandpapa’s letter said? The bastard child of a rapist, the product of hatred, the child even her own mother had wanted to murder at birth. She had been spawned from evil, and Papa had been deceived into taking her in.
No wonder Hawthorne hated her. Papa would hate her, too, if he knew.
Should have been strangled at birth.
Hawthorne’s words sliced through her heart. But what pained her more was the fact she deserved it. He was right, she should have died. Frederick Stanford’s true child was the one who should have lived.
Seizing her chance, she slipped across the hallway to the main doors, then ran out into the night.
Chapter Thirteen
“Where’s my daughter?” Stanford’s voice obliterated the distant chatter of Hawthorne’s guests.
By now, the gentlemen would have joined the ladies for coffee and an evening of music. Clara excelled at the pianoforte, and he’d promised to sing a duet with her. But his heart no longer wished to accompany her. Each time he saw Clara, her face was replaced by another, one with deep-set eyes and framed with red-gold hair. When Stanford took his daughter home, would Hawthorne ever see her again?
“She’s resting, sir,” Hawthorne said. “She was indisposed and took her supper in her chamber. Why don’t you join my guests for coffee, and I’ll bring her to you. I’ll have a chamber prepared for you, and you can take her home in the morning.”
“But…”
“Ross, please take Mr. Stanford to the drawing room.”
Stanford’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the authority in Hawthorne’s voice, the tone of the magistrate.
“Come with me, sir.” Ross, with his gentler demeanor, could always be relied upon.
As soon as they left, Hawthorne leapt to his feet. The housekeeper accosted him in the hallway.
“Why is Miss Stanford not with you, Mrs. Briggs?”
“I can’t find her, my lord. She’s not in her room.”
“Where the devil is she?”
“Begging your pardon, sir.” A footman approached, holding a tray of port glasses. “I saw Miss Stanford outside your study earlier this evening.”
Hawthorne nodded. “Thank you, Watson. I’ll try there first. If you find her, please take her to the drawing room.”
His study was empty, but a candlestick stood in the center of the desk. Wax had solidified on the leather cover where the candle had burned out, leaving an irregular splash pattern. His notebook and quill were exactly where he’d left them, but the letter opener lay at an odd angle.
The upper left drawer was splintered at the top where it had been forced open. He looked inside and found his ledgers still there, as was the money he kept for when his steward needed ready cash. But the papers which had previously been neatly stacked lay crumpled, as if someone had stuffed them in quickly.
Who would be angry enough to commit such an offence, but not motivated by greed? A pair of gloves lay on the floor at his feet. Only one of his guests insisted on wearing gloves all the time, the one person who was absent during dinner.
He pulled out the topmost piece of paper, smoothed it on his desk, and looked over the written words she must have read and understood.
“Frederica…”
At all costs, he must find her before she did anything foolish.
*
Through the kitchen door, Hawthorne saw a group of servants seated round the table, snatching a hasty supper, a brief respite while the guests languished over their coffee.
“The master’s here!”
The hum of jovial chatter disappeared and silence fell. Several pairs of eyes watched Hawthorne as he descended the stairs, and the air grew cold with apprehension. Watson rose to his feet.
“Did you find her, sir?”
Hawthorne shook his head. “No. Miss Stanford has disappeared.”
A young girl at the end of the table let out a gasp, and the woman seated next to her gave her a nudge.
“Be quiet, Jenny!” she hissed.
“Jenny,” Hawthorne turned to the girl. “Have you something to say?”
She shook her head. “No, sir,” she said, her voice shaky. “She wasn’t in her room when I looked in on her after clearing Lord Markham’s room.” She wiped her nose. “Forgive me! I should have said something. She seemed ever so upset.”
“Has nobody seen anything?” Hawthorne asked. “No matter how trivial. You see and hear what I and my guests are likely to miss.”
One of the under-gardeners shifted in his seat. “It’s probably nothing, sir…”
“Tell me,” Hawthorne said.
“Outside. I thought it was an intruder, but they were moving away from the house, not toward it.”
“Where?”
“Near the main entrance. Too slight to be a man. I dismissed it as a fancy, but…”
Before he could finish, Hawthorne turned and rushed up the stairs.
“Watson, tell Bartlett to saddle Samson immediately!”
Within moments, Hawthorne entered the stables, pulling his long coat around him. The temperature had fallen and snow whirled in a devilish dance.
The groom walked his horse out and handed him the reins. Issuing a gruff word of thanks, Hawthorne placed a foot in the stirrup, swung his leg over the horse’s back, a
nd set off.
The gardener had not imagined it—a trail of footprints led toward the gardens. The snow was falling more steadily, the wind whipping it into a frenzy, forming drifts which had already obliterated some of the features of the garden. He had not ridden far before the footsteps disappeared.
He could only hope she was still a creature of habit. As a child, he’d often seen a flash of red on his estate where she’d drifted into the rose garden and hidden in the gazebo. He used to watch over her while she sat alone, a silent sentinel never revealing himself lest he frighten her.
He urged Samson into a canter.
He heard her before he saw her. Amid the roar of the blizzard lashing his face, he detected heartfelt cries. He dismounted and tethered the animal to a sapling twenty feet from the gazebo. His little changeling was wounded, even if those wounds were invisible. She needed a careful hand if he was to return her inside where she could be tended to by those who loved her.
But would they love her when they discovered the truth? Or would Stanford abandon her mourn his real child that died nineteen years ago?
She sat huddled against the gazebo wall, thin arms wrapped around herself to battle against the cold. Gloves missing, the scars on her wrists stood out against her pale skin.
“Miss Stanford.”
She didn’t react, and he moved closer until he almost touched her.
“Little changeling…”
Her body stilled, and she lifted her head. She blinked, her eyes red and swollen from crying.
He ran his hand along her arm until he reached her wrist. Her skin was hot and smooth under his thumb, except for the scars, an ugly reminder of his cowardice.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice gentle.
“Leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that. The cold will kill you if you stay here.”
“It’s what I deserve.”
“No…”
“I come from evil!” she cried. “Is that why I suffer from madness, why I’m vilified? Do they all know what I am?”