Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  “Drink this, daughter,” he said. “Then tell me what’s happened.”

  She took a sip. The liquid caught at the back of her throat, but lessened the nausea which had been plaguing her, and she took another taste.

  A warm hand covered hers.

  “Oh, Rica, my love, what have you done?”

  She shook her head, her body too engulfed by shame to move. Dearest Papa had done so much for her—the changeling child who was not even his. And she had repaid his kindness with disgrace.

  “I–I’m sorry, Papa.”

  “My darling child, why didn’t you tell me?”

  She bit her lip, choking back a cry of shame.

  “Can you not look at me, Frederica? Don’t you owe me that at least?”

  She opened her eyes, and a spike of pain ripped through her heart. Moisture glistened in her father’s eyes, their expression dark with pain. Love still shone in face, but it was now overwhelmed by another emotion.

  Disappointment.

  He drew her into his arms, but she took no comfort from it.

  “I didn’t want to bring any more shame on you.”

  “Has he offered marriage?”

  “No,” she said. “Nor is he ever likely to.”

  “Good Lord, he’s not married, is he?”

  “No, Papa,” she said. “He…he’s too far above me in station. I was a fool to think otherwise.”

  Papa shook his head, and his voice cracked. “Frederica, how could you? My child, my precious child. What did I do wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, Papa!” she cried. “You have every right to hate me.”

  He placed a kiss on her head. “I’ll always love my darling girl, whatever you’ve done. It’s him I hate.”

  He tightened his hold on her. “Damned blackguard. Bloody aristocrats are all the same, thinking their lineage entitles them to take advantage of innocents.”

  “No, Papa, it wasn’t like that…”

  “Don’t make excuses for him, Frederica. Perhaps an encounter at dawn would teach him that debauching an innocent has consequences.”

  “No, Papa!” she cried. “I just want to forget, please!”

  He sighed. “Very well, if that’s what you wish. But you must tell me his name.”

  She shook her head.

  “Was it Stiles?”

  Her stomach clenched at his name, and she drained her glass to temper the nausea swirling inside her. Hawthorne deserved Papa’s wrath, deserved to be punished for breaking her heart. But a piece of her heart still belonged to him. Her love for him was ingrained in her very being, carved into her soul. No matter what he’d done, she could not live with herself if she caused him harm. And she owed it to Papa, who admired and liked him. She would not let her folly cost Papa a good friend.

  She had already sinned. A small falsehood to protect those she loved was nothing in comparison.

  “No, Papa,” she said. “It wasn’t him.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Let us speak no more on the matter.”

  “What will you do?”

  He kissed the top of her head.

  “I’ll return you to Hampshire.”

  His reassurance released the tears, and he stroked her head, murmuring words of comfort. The only creature in the world who cared for her. Dearest Papa.

  “I’m so sorry, Papa,” she said.

  “No matter, child. Go to your chamber and rest, now. I have a few business arrangements to conclude, then we shall take tea and discuss our future. Together. I promise, you’ll never have to see him again.”

  *

  The clock struck seven, and Frederica opened her eyes. The light was fading, but nobody had come to wake her.

  Where was Papa?

  She pulled back the blanket, sat up, and smoothed down her dress.

  Our future. That’s what Papa had said. And it stretched before her like a golden glow, no longer bleak. Perhaps he’d permit her to help with his business. Or let her keep house for him and paint for a living. Her prospects of making a match on the London marriage mart were now over, but she would never have been happy surrendering her freedom to a man.

  With renewed hope, she made her way to the morning room. Her footsteps echoed into silence, warring with the ticking of the longcase clock in the hall.

  Papa was not there.

  She crossed the hall to the study, but there was no sign of Papa. A nagging doubt propelled her toward the mahogany desk, and she pulled open the bottom drawer where Papa kept his pistol.

  The drawer was empty.

  She ran out into the hall.

  “Papa! Papa!”

  Hurried footsteps approached from behind the servants’ door, and the footman appeared, wig askew, his body heaving with exertion.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Where’s Papa, James?”

  “He’s gone out, miss.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “He left shortly after you retired to your chamber.”

  “That was hours ago! Did he say anything?”

  “No, miss, but he was in such a temper!”

  “Did he take his pistol?”

  “I–I can’t say,” the footman replied, “but he was in a rare hurry to see him.”

  “Who?” Frederica asked. “Lord Stiles?”

  “No, miss. He went to Hackton House.”

  A cold fist clutched at her heart.

  The residence of the duke. Papa had gone to confront Markham.

  Her body jerked to life, and she rushed toward the door. James caught her arm.

  “Miss, you cannot be seen running about London unaccompanied.”

  She pushed him aside. “No, James, I have to!”

  Before he could stop her, she dashed outside. The sun had yet to slip below the horizon. Orange fingers spread out across the buildings, giving the bricks a sinister glow. Uttering a silent prayer, she broke into a run.

  *

  Hackton House, Markham’s London residence, was set back from the street, separated from the rest of the world.

  The façade of the house threw sharp shadows across the drive, and she walked into darkness as she approached the building. She knocked on the door.

  It opened to reveal the stark, white face of a footman, and cold soulless eyes staring down at her.

  “His Grace is not receiving visitors.”

  “Is Mr. Stanford here?”

  He looked over his shoulder.

  “Let her in,” a low voice spoke from inside. She stepped inside, and her blood froze at the sight before her.

  Two men stood near the door, wearing the unmistakable uniform of the Bow Street Runners. The duke and his son stood at the far wall. Side by side, the family likeness was striking, though the duke’s hair was thinner and grayer than Roderick’s.

  At their feet lay the body of a man.

  Legs twisted, arm thrown out, he lay on his back, sightless eyes staring upward. A pool of dark liquid spread out from beneath his form, glistening in the candlelight. His shirt, once white, bore a single mark, a gaping hole.

  “Papa…”

  “I wondered when you’d come.” Roderick drained his glass.

  “You bastard!” She rushed toward him, but one of the runners darted toward her and caught her arm.

  “Steady as you go, miss.”

  Roderick cocked his head to one side. “I rather think you’re the bastard, my dear.”

  “Y-you killed him…”

  “My son acted in self-defense.” The duke’s mouth twisted into a curve of contempt, mirroring his son’s. “Stanford tried to murder me, look!” He pointed to a bullet hole in the wall. “Narrowly missed my head. If my son hadn’t stopped him, your father would be facing the gallows like the common criminal he is.”

  “You mean was.” Roderick grinned.

  Papa…

  It couldn’t be true. This was a civilized world where gentlemen didn’t murder each other. Papa must be jesting. If she could only reach him, touch him,
he’d wake up and hold her; call her his precious Rica again. They were going to live together in the country.

  She struggled to break free, but the runner tightened his grip.

  “Please! Let me go to him.”

  “Eject this female,” the duke said. “I’ve endured enough distress at the hands of that man’s family.”

  “Come on, miss,” the runner said. “We’ll take you home.”

  “No!” she cried. “Papa, you promised! Wake up!”

  The runner pulled her toward the door. “Now, miss, that’s quite enough of that.”

  “He’s killed Papa!”

  “That’s for the law to decide, miss,” he said. “Now, you need to go home. His Grace has had a shock.”

  The Duke turned his back on her and disappeared as the runners dragged her toward the doors.

  “Wait!” At Roderick’s command, they stopped, and Roderick advanced on her.

  “You can still be mine, little bird,” he whispered. “Who will take care of you? I’m willing to be generous. With my protection, you’ll want for nothing.” He reached up to caress her face, but as his fingertips touched her skin, she spat at him.

  “I’d rather die than have you touch me again!”

  He recoiled and wiped his face.

  “You’ll regret that, little bird.” He nodded to the runners. “Get her out of my sight.”

  “Papa!” she screamed, but her words echoed into silence. He would never hear her again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As Hawthorne finished his fourth brandy, the harsh lines of guilt at the thought of his little changeling and what he’d done, had softened. By the time he’d drained the seventh, the constraints of reason had shattered to expose the calling of his heart.

  Frederica.

  She deserved so much better than what he’d offered—the life and world of a mistress. The word protector implied a relationship of security and benevolence. But in reality, it existed only to serve the base needs of wealthy men.

  Some women enjoyed the occupation, but what happened when their protectors moved on? What happened when the woman mistook mere fucking for love? If a man fell in love with his mistress, he could perpetuate the union with gifts and turn a blind eye to her indifference. But heartbreak was the only reward for the mistress who had the misfortune to fall in love with her patron.

  Even Clara, with all her joie de vivre and financial independence, was often caught staring into the distance when she thought herself unobserved, regret etched into her brow. She had a comfortable home, a stipend for life, courtesy of her late husband, and lovers aplenty. She illuminated every room she entered. Yet beneath her vivacity, lay the knowledge that her chances of securing a mate for life, a family, and children of her own, diminished as each year passed.

  How could Frederica, who lacked Clara’s predatory sophistication, hope to survive in such a world?

  What did he value most? Was it his footing in society, his reputation, and career as a magistrate—the fulfilment of his lifelong ambition to right the wrongs of the world?

  Or was it the woman he loved?

  The world meant nothing to him if it were a world in which she suffered.

  “Forgive me, sir,” a voice spoke. “There’s a gentleman to see you.” The butler stood in the doorway.

  Hawthorne waved his empty glass at him. “Send him packing, Giles, then get me another.”

  “I’m unable to do that, sir.”

  “If the bottle is empty, open a new one.”

  “No, sir, I mean I’m unable to send him away. He was most insistent. I took the liberty of escorting him to your study.”

  Muttering a curse, Hawthorne stood. “If it’s not a matter of life and death, I’ll have you dismissed for this.”

  The butler’s expression remained stoic. Either he cared little for his master’s threats, or his abilities to remain poker-faced were unmatched. Or… A matter of life and death…

  He brushed past Giles and strode into the study.

  His lawyer stood beside the desk, leaning on a cane.

  Hawthorne motioned to him to sit, then took the seat opposite. “What do you want, Stockton? It’s past ten o’clock. Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the lawyer said. “There’s been an accident, a shooting.”

  “Which is my business because?”

  “You’re Stanford’s executor.”

  Fear clawed at him, and he gasped for breath.

  “Frederica…”

  Stockton raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. “No, it’s her father. He’s been killed.”

  “How?”

  “Markham shot him.”

  Rage exploded inside him, and he leapt to his feet. “That bastard! What has he done?”

  Stockton held his hand up in warning. “By all accounts, Markham acted in self-defense. Several witness accounts testify to the fact that Stanford was the aggressor. He threatened to kill Markham and fired the first shot.”

  “Who witnessed it?”

  “Two footmen in Markham’s employ,” Stanford said. “And before you refute their testimonies, we already have witnesses who saw Stanford running toward Markham’s home, brandishing a pistol. A courting couple. It appears that Stanford collided with them and almost knocked the lady to the ground.”

  “Dear, God!” Hawthorne cried. “It’s my fault.”

  “How so?” Stockton replied. “Was Stanford acting under your direction?”

  “No, no, of course not. But Frederica…” he broke off as the lawyer leaned forward at the mention of her name. “Why are you here, Stockton?”

  “Mr. Stanford named you in the will as his daughter’s guardian. It seemed simpler to send her to you tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  The lawyer shifted uncomfortably. “You may be unaware that one of my partners, Mr. Allardice, is lawyer to Lady Axminster, whose London residence Mr. Stanford had been occupying. Allardice has insisted his client would view the presence of the daughter of a murderer in her house as an unnecessary inconvenience and that she be evicted forthwith.”

  “How can Stanford be a murderer if he was killed?”

  “The evidence points to his intentions,” Stockton said. “Allardice insists on her being removed from the house before midnight.” He hesitated. “Of course, if you’re unwilling to take her in, I can make temporary arrangements for her to be housed elsewhere.”

  “No…I couldn’t allow that.”

  “I understand if you’re unwilling to be associated with a scandal,” the lawyer said. “I’m not here to judge you, but to carry out your instructions.”

  “In that case, you can send a message to Mr. Allardice.”

  “And tell him what?”

  “That his unnecessary inconvenience will be dealt with. And that he has my leave to rot in hell.”

  Stockton had the grace to look ashamed.

  “How is she?” Hawthorne asked. “Have you spoken with her?”

  “Only a little,” Stockton replied. “The runners said she’d grown violent by the time they brought her back.”

  “Is it any wonder?” Hawthorne interrupted. “Her father had just been killed!”

  “The housekeeper managed to give her a dose of laudanum,” Stockton continued. “When I saw her, she was subdued and unresponsive, so I doubt she’ll give you any trouble, at least for tonight. Tomorrow, of course, might be another matter.”

  “Tomorrow will be no concern of yours, Mr. Stockton.”

  The lawyer picked up his cane and eased himself out of his chair as Hawthorne strode out of the study.

  The butler stood in the hallway, almost exactly where he’d left him.

  “Giles, I need the carriage.”

  “I’ve already taken the liberty, sir. It’s waiting outside.”

  “Good. Now, send for Doctor McIver. Tell him to come here directly.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Don’t argue!” Hawthorne roare
d. “Tell him he can name his price, and if he doesn’t come, I’ll hunt him down and bloody well shoot him.”

  “As you wish.”

  The butler exchanged a glance with the lawyer, then opened the front door. Hawthorne stepped out and climbed into the carriage.

  He should have listened to the voices which had whispered of a tragedy surrounding Frederica. With her state of mind, he prayed he would not be too late to prevent further misfortune.

  *

  The colors which had inspired Frederica on her arrival in London had faded. No longer bright, the world around her was a mass of gray. Papa was the only person, save, Grandpapa, who’d ever truly loved her. Now he was gone, and there was no longer any need for color.

  After the runners had taken her home, they asked her endless questions about Papa, his pistol, and state of mind. Judgmental eyes watched her while she tried to form answers, but the words would not come.

  What did it matter? Everything she loved was lost.

  This wasn’t even her home. It was Lady Axminster’s, and Frederica was no longer welcome in it. While the questions continued to flow, another man had appeared. At first, she wondered whether he’d come to protect her from the questions. But his benign appearance was merely a cloak to conceal his predatory nature. In a smooth voice, he’d informed her that she was to be evicted.

  *

  “Poor wee soul. Is it any wonder she almost lost her mind? But she’ll make a full recovery, provided she’s looked after.”

  A soft Highland burr penetrated Frederica’s consciousness.

  “Thank you, Doctor McIver.”

  Her body responded to the familiarity of the second voice—skin tingling, blood warming. Soft colors swirled in her mind, gentle greens and a rich, comforting chocolate.

  “Ye gave me little choice, Lord Stiles,” the first voice said.

  Warm fingers grasped her hand.

  “Where…” The word stuck in her throat.

  “You’re at my home.” His hand solidified and pulled her into consciousness.

  She opened her eyes.

  She blinked to dissipate the fog muffling her senses and focused on the world around her: an ornately carved table, a candlestick which glinted in the light, a washstand, and bowl. At the far end of the room, a fire burned. The fireplace, a pale marble, was shot with pale, brown streaks, spreading vein-like through the stone.