Hawthorne’s Wife

by Royal, Emily

  As they rounded a corner, he spotted another couple walking toward them. Frederica tightened her grip on his arm.

  “Georgia,” she called. “Go and look at the swans.”

  “But Miss Jones wants to show me her favorite part of the park.”

  “Do as you’re told!” Frederica snapped. “Miss Jones, take her to the water now.”

  A passing gentleman stopped and stared at her.

  Hawthorne bent his head and hissed in her ear. “Hush! Do you want all of society to hear you speak so?”

  She said nothing but stared straight ahead at the approaching couple.

  “I say, it’s Stiles! What an extraordinary pleasure to see you out and about, and with your wife, no less! At least I presume she’s your wife? It’s so difficult to tell when all manner of females can be seen on a gentleman’s arm.”

  Roderick Markham still bore the countenance of an angel. In contrast, the woman on his arm bore a gray, lifeless complexion. Her dress seemed to hang on her body. She’d always been a thin, but today, she looked on the brink of disappearing altogether. Her gaze flicked between her surroundings and her husband, as if she needed to continually verify his approval.

  Miss Jones looked up, and her gaze lingered on Markham, before she resumed her attention on her charge.

  “What a delectable little child!” Markham said.

  “Don’t look at her,” Frederica snarled.

  Markham chuckled. “Your daughter, I presume. Of course, the question on everybody’s lips is the identity of her father.”

  “How dare you…” Frederica said, but Hawthorne interrupted her.

  “That’s enough. Markham. Retract that slur, or I’ll hold you to account for it.”

  Markham fisted his hands, and Alice winced.

  “You have my apologies, Stiles,” he said. “You’re not to blame for your wife’s indiscretions. She told me she wrote you such a pretty note to say goodbye before she jilted you. I suppose I should be affronted that she did not go to the trouble of doing the same for me when she sold herself to the next man, but whores are plentiful in London, are they not?”

  Alice showed little reaction to her husband’s words. Markham’s infidelity was well known, but it was another thing entirely to boast of it in front of his wife.

  “I didn’t leave with you,” Frederica said.

  “A flat denial is what I expect from a doxy,” Markham said. “What tales did she weave to entice you back, Stiles? Did she use the brat or merely her body?”

  Hawthorne suppressed the urge to obliterate Markham’s grin with his fist. “I have no intention of relating our history to you.”

  Markham let out a laugh. “Perhaps my little bird has picked up a few tricks in addition to the skills I taught her.”

  “Stop there, Markham,” Hawthorne barked, “unless you wish me to call you out.”

  “I used every inch of her body,” Markham said with relish. “And she let me do anything I wished to heighten my pleasure.”

  Hawthorne caught a blur of movement at his side, then, with a scream of rage, Frederica smashed her fist into Markham’s jaw. Markham staggered back with a groan.

  “Roderick!” Alice clung to his arm, and he shook her off with a violent gesture.

  He wiped his mouth and advanced on Frederica. “I shouldn’t expect anything else from a scrubber’s brat, the daughter of a murderer!”

  “That’s enough!” Hawthorne roared. He pulled off his glove and slapped it across Markham’s face. “I’m calling you out. It’s about bloody time I taught you a lesson!”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Markham said.

  “No!” Frederica placed her body between the two men.

  “Stand aside,” Hawthorne said. “This is a matter between gentlemen. I must settle this once and for all. Markham’s had this coming for a long time.”

  She placed her hand on his chest and looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with fear.

  “Please…”

  “Frederica, I must settle this,” Hawthorne said. “Don’t you understand? It’s a matter of honor, your honor.”

  “I rather wonder at your notion of honor in relation to a soiled whore,” Markham said. “But I take pride in finally understanding what she values above all.” He gestured toward Hawthorne’s coat. “I find myself admiring the buttons of your jacket, Stiles. Perhaps when we’ve settled the matter, you’d be generous enough to let me inspect them at close quarter.”

  “That’s enough!” Frederica cried. “Markham, leave us alone. Take your wife home, she looks unwell.”

  “Who are you to judge my wife?” Markham asked. “And I shall go where I please. If your husband is a coward then, by all means, you may go.”

  “Coward, how dare…”

  Frederica tugged at Hawthorne’s sleeve. “Please, Hawthorne, come home with me.”

  Markham folded his arms and stared at Hawthorne, as if in challenge. “Are you so much of a milksop that your wife orders you about?”

  “Of course not,” Hawthorne said. “I’ll see you at dawn. Name your weapons.”

  “Hawthorne, no!” Frederica said. “If you do this, I will leave you and take Georgia with me. And this time, we’ll disappear for good. As God is my witness, I swear, you’ll never see your daughter again!”

  The angry resolve in her voice told him she would carry out her threat. As he had used their daughter to cow her into submission, now she turned the same weapon on him. But who was she protecting? Him, or that bastard, Markham?

  A small crowd had formed, mirroring the day he’d confronted Markham in the park, five years ago, shortly after Stanford died. Now, as then, they whispered to each other, relishing the second act of their entertainment.

  “Well, really!” a woman exclaimed to her partner. “I must say, Countess Stiles is more entertaining now than she ever was. For amusement value, if nothing else, I daresay a little pollution is permissible among our ranks.”

  Hawthorne recognized Lady Wilcott. Doubtless, she was congratulating herself on marrying off her daughter to another. A ripple of amusement threaded through the crowd.

  Anger boiled within him, and he fisted his hand, unable to fight the urge to destroy the smile on Markham’s face. But before he could strike, cold, determined fingers curled round his wrist.

  “Don’t touch him.”

  The iron-like grip of her fingers was matched only by the steel in her voice.

  “As my wife wishes,” he said.

  She loosened her grip, and he shook her hand off. Then he took her arm and led her toward the barouche.

  “Our excursion is over,” he said. “Miss Jones, bring Georgia to us immediately!”

  Frederica remained silent for the journey home. Georgia was quiet at first, but at encouragement from Miss Jones, chatted about the swans in the park.

  After Hawthorne escorted his family to the front door, he returned to the street.

  “Hawthorne?” his wife called after him. “Where are you going?”

  “To my club,” he said. “I need a drink. In peace.”

  “Promise me you won’t confront him.”

  “After you publicly ordered me not to?” he said. “Is your desire to protect him that strong?”

  “I did it for you, Hawthorne.”

  “Just like you left me,” he said, “and threatened to do so again. All for my benefit.”

  “You can think what you like,” she said. “As long as you’re safe.”

  Before he could respond, she disappeared inside the house.

  *

  If Hawthorne thought brandy a great healer, it wasn’t working. He was on his fourth, and despite a blurring around the edges of the images of his two companions, he felt no softening effects.

  His friends provided no comfort. Ross sat opposite, flaunting the bruise on his face where Hawthorne had punched him, Westbury watched him with a cold expression in his clear blue eyes.

  Westbury visited Whites so rarely, he sh
ould at least be enjoying his time here. Rumor had it, the scarcity of his visits was due to his wife’s influence. Hawthorne had to admit the duchess was intriguing, but she was merely a woman. Did Westbury remove his balls as well as his greatcoat each time he entered the marital home? Perhaps he kept them in a dish by the front door.

  Hawthorne waved the butler over for another brandy.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Stiles?”

  Ignoring the accusatory tone in Ross’s voice, Hawthorne barked his order at the butler. As soon as he shuffled out of earshot, Westbury leaned forward.

  “Your friend is right, Stiles. Brandy won’t solve your problems.”

  “It makes them feel a damn sight better.”

  “Only temporarily. You of all people must understand that.”

  “I fail to see what business it is of yours, Westbury.”

  “I was the one who fished you out of the Thames after you’d indulged in several bottles of the stuff.” Westbury cast him a sharp glare, then turned his head away. “But my opinion doesn’t count, I suppose.”

  Hawthorne snorted. “A man ruled by his wife? What value should I place on anything you say?”

  “There was a time when you listened to my counsel,” Westbury said. He nodded to Ross. “And his. Trelawney has always seen the good in a woman, even that vapid creature who rejected him for Markham.”

  Hawthorne jerked involuntarily at the mention of that hateful name.

  “And there it is,” Ross said. “Your jealousy of Markham.”

  “I’m not jealous!” Hawthorne snapped.

  Westbury drained his glass and stood. “I see no reason why I should continue to waste my time here. I’d rather spend the evening with my wife.”

  “Your wife is a good woman,” Hawthorne said.

  “And so is yours!”

  “That’s not what you said at the Wilcotts’ ball.”

  Westbury’s eyes flashed with anger. “That was before I spoke to her. Shall I tell you what happened at the ball, Stiles? I told her how much she’d hurt you. I even insulted her, and do you know what she did?”

  Hawthorne shook his head. The last thing he wanted to hear was the details of an argument between his wife and his friend.

  “She told me I was a good man,” Westbury said. “She said that no matter what I thought of her, she would always have admiration and respect for the man who was there when you needed him. Now, I love my wife to distraction, and I’m sure you ridicule me for it. You’re too damned blind to realize you’re in possession of just such a woman.”

  “She left me,” Hawthorne growled, “much as your wife left you.”

  Westbury nodded.

  “Frederica knew I loved her,” Hawthorne said.

  “Did she?” Ross leaned forward, brows furrowed. “Or did she think you just viewed her as a trophy which you fought over with Markham?”

  Hawthorne sipped his brandy and leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. He closed his eyes. “I told her I’d forgiven her.”

  “And have you?” Westbury asked. “Assuming, of course, there was anything to forgive in the first place.”

  Hawthorne drained his glass, the brandy giving him much-needed lucidity, as if his rational mind, which harbored the prejudices of the aristocracy, now cracked and crumbled to reveal his heart. Instead of trying to understand her, he’d let his pride eat away at the one pure thing in his life, the love he bore her. Ross had been right. He was jealous of Markham, a boyhood rival he’d thrashed at Eton, a man he loathed. That loathing had nourished the devil on his shoulder, giving it a voice to whisper in his ear.

  Frederica was no society lady driven to further her position. She was his little changeling, her heart as pure as the snow which adorned the landscape in winter. That purity had been tainted over the years by the footprints of others. And none more than his, which had trampled her soul.

  And yet, she still loved him, still defended him. Markham had shot and killed Frederica’s father for trying to defend her honor. But Frederica didn’t share society’s obsession with honor. Instead, she valued life and love. Her outburst in the park that afternoon was not from a lack of understanding of society, but out of her need to protect someone she loved.

  And that someone was him.

  What if her flight from him five years ago had been driven by such a fear? Had Markham threatened to shoot him? Manipulate him into a duel?

  What had she said about him to Ross?

  I know he’ll never forgive me for leaving, but I did it for him. Everything I do is for him.

  The brandy turned to cold acid in Hawthorne’s stomach, and he set his glass aside.

  “I say, old chap,” Westbury said. “Are you all right?”

  Hawthorne leapt to his feet. “I’m going home.”

  The time for speaking was over. He had wronged the finest woman in England, and his place was by her side. He prayed he was not too late and that she would forgive him.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Frederica set her charcoal aside and inspected the sketch. The light had long since faded. Harry had lit the candles, but the flickering yellow flame gave her a headache compared to natural light.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am.”

  Jenny stood before her.

  “You were so engrossed in your sketch, I didn’t want to disturb you. If I may be so bold, I wonder at your ability to capture his likeness from memory.”

  “You’re very kind, Jenny, but it’s not really from memory. Whenever I close my eyes, I see him.”

  “Oh, my lady…” A thin hand covered hers as they shared a brief moment of female solidarity.

  Jenny might be inferior in social position, but she was richer than Frederica in what mattered. Harry had recently offered for her hand, and Hawthorne had granted it, giving them his blessing and a guarantee of employment for life. They had reason to think him the kindest man in the world.

  And he was, which made Frederica’s pain all the more intense—that such a good man could not find it in his heart to love her as he once did.

  “I came to tell you Mrs. Beecham is retiring.”

  “I’ll be along directly. Could you bring Georgia? She’ll want to say goodnight.”

  The old woman sat in her chamber propped up against her pillows. She reached out to Frederica, thin, bony hands clinging to her as if in a last desperate attempt to cling to life.

  “My dear child.”

  The pain of future loss throbbed at Frederica’s temples, and salty moisture stung her eyes. Mrs. Beecham had outlived expectations, so Doctor McIver kept saying, but that wouldn’t lessen the pain of her passing.

  The old woman smiled as if she read her thoughts.

  “What have I told ye, lass, about grieving?” she said, her Scottish burr more prominent when she was tired. “I have no intention of leaving you yet, not until that young man comes to his senses.”

  “I’ve hurt him too deeply, Mrs. Beecham.”

  “As he’s hurt you, my dear,” the old woman replied. “As others have hurt you. But do you harbor hatred? No, you don’t.”

  Frederica sighed. “It’s different for him, he has a position to maintain.”

  “You think the Almighty judges us for our circumstances of birth? If that were so, I should be terrified of facing Him. Yet, I do not fear my passing. I’ve done my best to live a good life, to care for those I love, including you and your wee bairn. I may know little, but I understand much. That young man cares more for you than he wishes to admit. I see him struggle with it when he thinks no one watches.”

  She squeezed Frederica’s hand. “I’m determined to live to see the day when he admits it. Then my work in watching over you will be done.”

  “I can take care of myself, Mrs. Beecham.”

  “That ye can,” the old woman said softly, “but we all need love in our lives.”

  Her eyes glistened with moisture, and she wiped them away.

  “Be off with ye, lass. I c
an’t spend my time blathering when I’m in need of sleep.”

  “Goodnight, Mrs. Beecham.” Frederica kissed the old woman’s forehead.

  She closed the door behind her and padded along the corridor toward her chamber.

  Rapid footsteps approached, and she turned to see Jenny, her face creased in distress.

  “Oh, ma’am, it’s the little mistress!”

  “Has she been taken ill?”

  “I can’t find her!”

  “Have you asked Miss Jones?”

  “Miss Jones is nowhere to be found. She must have taken Georgia out.”

  “Where would she go?”

  A memory assaulted her mind, cold blue eyes following her daughter in the park, and the memory of his words…

  Even a soiled whore always has something to lose… It’s just a matter of discovering what that is.

  “Markham…”

  She ran toward the stairs, screaming for Giles. The butler appeared in the hall.

  “My lady?”

  “Fetch my cloak, immediately!”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Just do it!” she screamed.

  He took a step back.

  “It’s the little mistress,” Jenny said, panting.

  “We must fetch the master,” Giles said.

  “What good will that do?” Frederica asked sharply. “You’ll trawl the clubs and gaming hells, and for what? So he can admonish me on my failings? There’s no time for recriminations. I must find her now!”

  Harry appeared with her cloak and handed it to her. She could not miss the tender expression which passed between the footman and Jenny. Pulling her cloak around her, she pushed past Giles, and ran out the front door.

  Where would she even begin to look?

  The streets were empty. The windows of the townhouses she passed were ablaze with light. Silhouettes moved and laughter filtered through the doors—society families enjoying soirees to mark the end of the season—evenings of insipid, vacuous gossip and bland conversation.

  “Well, how fortuitous!”

  Her body froze at the familiar voice, and a man emerged from the shadows. This was no ordinary predator that would move on and seek better quarry.