The Bittersweet Bride

by Vanessa Riley

He rubbed at his eyes and paced a moment, hoping to have read something wrong. He’d been in Tradenwood. She’d never introduced him to her child. But, why would she? He’d threatened her with scandal in his play. He’d accused her of trying to ruin his side of the family with the water leases. “She must have a child, one that’s not well.”

  Jasper folded his arms, as if he was in deep thought. “That wasn’t what I hoped for. Sometimes people don’t get well.”

  A chill set in Ewan’s skin. It wasn’t what he hoped either. He’d rather Theo prove herself scandalous than with a suffering child, but a child to an old man could be sickly. She should’ve grieved a little longer and not taken up with old Cecil. Now she seemed like a good woman who’d fallen for his cousin and gave the man a child. No, that is not what he wanted at all.

  He pounded his palms together as if that could warm him. “I still don’t know why a woman of means would seek a marriage of convenience by newspaper?”

  “Companionship. And as I need someone to mother my girls, she may need someone to father her child.”

  Still made no sense, nor warrant all the secrecy and doctor visits. Ewan closed his eyes and allowed memories of Theo to haunt him, unvarnished by his own disappointments and jealousy. She had been shy, except when selling flowers. It had taken time to make her comfortable, to see her laugh. They were supposed to elope and had gotten caught in the thunderstorm. She had been skittish and so unsure of herself. But she’d trusted him and had given into the love that bound them. Then his father had discovered them and their plans had changed.

  Had Cecil seen her and pursued her, too? Had he been patient and found a way to make her love him? He’d never thought of that possibility. He’d believed Crisdon when he’d told him that she’d become a mistress and disappeared. Fitzwilliam half-truths had struck again. He moved to his desk and fingered the pile of papers, the play that branded her a harlot. Ewan felt shamed.

  His brother interrupted his musings. “I hadn’t thought of being a father to anyone else’s children. Is that selfish?”

  “Jasper, I’m no one to judge selfishness.” He dragged his thumb over the edge of the pages.

  Theo had to have truly cared for Cecil to give him a child. Maybe she’d loved Cecil as she claimed. That stung more than it should. Fuming on the inside, surely his guts turned black. Ewan read the third paragraph again, and again. “It definitely sounds as if she is a mother and to a sickly child. Do you want that? To father a child who is not well?”

  Jasper took the letter back. “I’ve done sickbed duty before. It’s not something I want, but I can’t let this lady go. You must help me win her. I think she’s the one. This is what I need for the girls. You’ve seen them. They need a caring mother. I’m failing them, Ewan. That’s why they act out.”

  Ewan loved his brother, but he needed to give him a dose a truth. “The girls don’t need a stepmother. They need more of you.”

  Looking to the ceiling, maybe counting the dark beams, Jasper was quiet, neither agreeing or disagreeing. Then he said, “You are always good at noticing things. You want to take care of things, but there is no more of me. Half of me is in the crypt with Maria. I’m doing what I can. Ewan, please stay at Grandbole. Come back here when your business in Town is done. Help me win advertisement number four. Ask her to meet. I am ready to paper this deal with solicitors.”

  A marriage contract? Ewan couldn’t have that. As bad as it had been for Theo to marry his rich cousin and have a child with him, it was worse thinking of Theo with Jasper. Though her money might even make the earl welcome her with open arms, Jasper couldn’t be what she needed. He still grieved Maria too much to be good to Theo. She needed more. But how much more?

  One thing he did know, he had to make sure his brother never met this newspaper bride. “Jasper, you still don’t know if you will like her. She could be playing on your sympathy. I’ll pen a response and deliver it to her box today. You shouldn’t meet with her until you are sure of her. The girls need you to be sure. If she writes back again, then you know she has passed all our tests. What she looks like won’t matter so much, if her character is beyond reproach.”

  Vanity surely winning, Jasper nodded. “You are right. I still don’t know what she looks like. She could be a rich hag. Or not so rich and more so hag. What will you ask her?”

  “It will come to me, Brother.”

  Jasper moved to the door. “You are the best. And you will return here?”

  “Yes, after delivering the note to Burlington Arcade, a dash to my own residence to gather my own clothes, and a meeting at the theater. Mr. Brown, the theater manager, needs to read through my play before making a decision. He said he’d know in a week. Once I’ve dropped it off, I will return here. Then we will wait for your widow’s response together.”

  Smiling, Jasper handed him the letter. “I’ve missed you, Ewan. You’ve always had a way to make things not seem so bad, calming and reassuring, for a younger brother.” The man stepped back, picked up his goblet, then wobbled out of the room.

  Ewan’s conscience roared, stabbing a bit at his gut. He’d do his best to make things good for Jasper, but his brother couldn’t have Theo. Shaking his head, he looked at the foolscap again. This was her hand, steady with a curly E. Someone may have helped her. From what he remembered, she could read a little and write short notes, like, I love you, Ewan. I’ll meet you, Ewan. I’ll wait for you, Ewan.

  But six years and means changed things. Why did she need a newspaper groom? She could still be all these things and pregnant.

  He shook his head of foolhardy conspiracies and determined to draft something cute to appease his brother, but something that Theo would never answer.

  It would have to be something difficult. Something transparent, something that singed her fingertips with its nakedness.

  Then it came to him. He needed to hear of her regrets. Proud Theo wouldn’t dare answer.

  But what if she did?

  Would she tell a stranger from a newspaper advertisement the answers to questions she’d never offer to him?

  Chapter Eight

  A Field of Truth

  Theodosia bristled on her patio. Her weeklong list of busywork tasks had come to an end and with it the excuses to miss the night at the theater with her friends.

  Her quick morning jaunt and several gold coins had secured the parish bells to ring for the festival. Hopefully, the wives of the merchants and pickers whom she’d hosted in her parlor would keep their word about inviting musicians and other cart vendors. Perhaps Mathew would hear the horns from heaven. How nice that would be.

  With her shears, she trimmed the clematis and tucked each of the new runners about the trellis. The blooms were secure, the female and male plantings held hands as Mathew had ordained.

  Maybe if she repotted her rosebush that would eat up more time. She could check on Philip. Then she’d check on him again. He was well, learning from his governess. No pain today for him, probably none tonight.

  Not a single reason to delay this outing. Deep down she wanted one, something to stay close to Tradenwood. Even the faithful gray storm clouds appeared too small. The short rain storm hadn’t lasted, leaving nothing but humidity. She took a breath of the heavy air. It wasn’t enough to beg off, much too little to stop Frederica’s pouts.

  Theodosia wrenched at her neck, smoothing the lace of her high collar. She had a light gray gown of the nicest silk with starched Mechlin lace about its hem to wear tonight. It would be perfect with her onyx cape. She’d be demure, half mourning, maybe invisible in the dark of the theater.

  With a sigh, she decided to focus on the good things in her life. A son who had no pain today. Plenty of food. Blooming clematis, purple and blush petals, vines holding hands, united in growth. She took another long breath, reveling in their fragrance.

  She had been blessed. It had been a whole week since Philip’s last earache. He’d been pleasant and without pain. Her heart had lifted when the doctor had said h
is hearing seemed to be at the same place it was when he’d last measured. Still not great, but no worse. The same pitiful hearing-from-only-one-side as before. She slumped against her patio knee wall. Nothing had yet been found to treat him or to keep these aches from returning. Nothing. Would he go fully deaf this year?

  And a whole week without Ewan pestering her. What was he doing? Had he given up and gone back to town? Her stomach soured. It was a good thing for him to be gone, but that didn’t stop that small part of her heart from beating fast when she thought him near, or the stupid part of her brain that leaped knowing he could visit any moment. She stomped her foot at her foolish, begrudgedly-missing-him heart.

  A knock on the hall door made her pulse tick faster. Had she wished Ewan into visiting? Smoothing her skirts, she stepped back into the parlor. “Enter.”

  Pickens came into the parlor with a letter in his hands. “The footman retrieved this from Burlington Arcade. It looks important.”

  Her heart soared. The fancy paper with the bluish tinge. She opened her hands to receive it. A thrill coursed through her fingers as she saw the mark. The baron had replied. “Thank you, Pickens.”

  He dipped his chin but stared as if something made him cross. “The theater, ma’am. Might I suggest you start getting ready for the outing. It’s a two-hour journey to Town.”

  She fingered the wax on the letter. What did the baron think of her answer? She flipped the paper over. “It’s a long ride, too long of one.”

  His bushy brow rose. “You’ll need to leave soon, so you’ll not be late.”

  “I was thinking of not going. Philip might have another bad night. He’ll need me.”

  “Master Philip has not had another upset. He will be well for this one evening.” Pickens’s face smoothed, showing the confidence that she’d come to depend upon. “I know how to contact the doctor. Your friends are counting on your presence.”

  She swiped at her brow. Fretting and humidity didn’t blend. “It’s not selfish to go? To leave Philip alone?”

  “Ma’am, you’ve barely gone on your rounds. You can’t stop living, waiting for the next upset.”

  It wasn’t merely panic over Philip that made her hunker down in Tradenwood. Ewan had kept up his haunting. The man appeared everywhere, always wanting a moment of her time, but she couldn’t give him any. He’d twist her like he’d done with Mrs. Gutter in the fields. She’d started thinking of him, missing his laugh. Why had she held his hand in the fields? That was how everything had begun, with him seeking her out. Would he stop by again tonight? No more being controlled by fear. She fanned the letter. “You are right. Miss Croome and Miss Burghley will be disappointed. I will go, but send for me if anything changes. If I am needed, I’ll leave in the middle of the singing.”

  The butler chuckled, and then said, “Mr. Fitzwilliam stopped by again.”

  “What?” Her voice squeaked. “You know that I don’t want him here.”

  Pickens’s chest became big, as if he sucked in all the air of the room. “I know, ma’am, but this time he asked to meet your heir.”

  Theodosia blinked so hard it hurt. She must’ve seemed like a mad woman. Well, maybe she was, for everything felt as if the walls were closing in upon her. “What did you tell him?”

  The butler took a cloth out and dusted the crystal knob. “I told him he was not welcome.”

  She coughed and let her heart start beating again. “Thank you, Pickens.”

  The butler’s face became blank, and he took a few paces toward her. “I know you haven’t asked my opinion, ma’am.”

  She startled and caught his gaze. “I haven’t.”

  A part of Pickens’s mouth lifted into a small momentary smile. “But I will offer it, this one time. The gentleman seems sincere. You may want to hear him out.” The butler pivoted and walked back to the threshold. “Don’t get so involved with your letter and forget the theater.”

  She waited for the door to close before pressing at the frustration that settled between her eyes. She didn’t trust Ewan, and she could never ever trust him with Philip.

  A noise sounded behind her. She swung, with arms raised, expecting to see her ghost lover, but saw nothing. The wind, not Ewan, had knocked over her rosebush.

  She put her letter down and bent over her toppled rosebush. With twitchy fingers, she scooped up the rich soil and filled the terra-cotta pot. The perfume of the dark, dark earth soothed her. It made her want to run out in the fields and find the spot where Mathew had claimed her. Mathew’s ghost would push out memories of Ewan.

  The man wasn’t a caring cousin. He wanted to confuse her. He hadn’t taken back his blackmail. He wanted her to sell Tradenwood, even as he’d danced with her in the fields.

  She sat the pot up but couldn’t take another second to enjoy it. New fear filled her. Ewan wanted to see Philip. That couldn’t happen. She needed a husband now more than ever. Someone she could trust to keep all the people who could hurt her son far away. She picked up the baron’s letter. With a prayer on her lips, she popped the seal. She scanned the lines. Her heart stopped, but not in a good way. She was mortified.

  To love children is good, for a wondrous mother, the virtue understood.

  It sounds as if you are a mother filled with love, but what lies lie in your heart? What falsehoods flow from your lips to aid your sleep? You don’t have to answer this missive. You very well can be dismissive, but I’m seeking a life with a wife whose heart and actions are beyond reproach. Are you the woman I seek? If you are, tell me your greatest regret. Into your life, let me peek.

  Another question? One sentence acknowledged her heartfelt response? How could he ask about personal regrets and not offer the same?

  There was no way to unread what the letter said.

  This would-be suitor, her newspaper groom, was all rhymes. How dare he want to know her deepest secrets, that hated R word?

  The letter had to be a joke.

  Someone found out about her trying to find a husband or maybe the baron liked games. Why hadn’t she seen this before she struggled to pen three paragraphs to his last letter?

  She started to pace, back and forth, patio tile, to parlor hardwoods, to cobblestones. A breeze swept over the fields, bringing inside a stronger scent of rain. The cooler wind stung her freshly chewed lip. She paced back into the parlor, picked up the letter, and crumpled the foolscap within her palm. This baron was playing games. Nothing was worse than a man who played games or who betrayed one’s trust.

  She should’ve stuck with the squire. His offer looked better and better. This fine-thinking rhymer offered nothing for her peace.

  No. Not a thing. She lowered her head and waited for her pulse to slow, her thoughts to order. This mystery man did offer something. He’d give her a name that was as honorable as Mathew’s and the hope that someone who asked such challenging questions would be a strong champion for Philip.

  She wiped a horrible tear from her eye. Why was she crying? She didn’t know this man, but she had foolishly put her hopes in him. She wanted someone stronger than Lester, than Ewan and all the Fitzwilliams. Then she wouldn’t have to be strong all the time.

  Theodosia had R’s, big ones, ones that she lived with every day, ones she couldn’t right. If she dared to pen one, would the baron use it to control her like Lester, like everyone else did?

  Caged in her skin, she started to run. Anger at this new suitor boiled inside. She had labored long, writing and rewriting, surviving two Ester edits for the baron, being as transparent as she could about motherhood without saying the words—my baby is almost deaf. And it’s my fault.

  It hadn’t been enough.

  Her greatest regret was hurting Philip.

  His deafness was her fault. All caused by her foolishness and pride. Theodosia’s fingers shook. Her stomach churned as if she’d vomit. She needed peace. She needed to think. She needed to feel safe, like when Mathew had lived, or the night Ewan had sheltered her in the storm.

  Not
caring about her slippers or the hem of her dark mourning skirt, she trudged deeper into the field. The satin became damp in the fresh mud, but she didn’t care. She stuck the paper against her heart and kept moving—all while the baron’s reply repeated in her head.

  Are you the woman I seek? If you are, tell me your greatest regret. Into your life, let me peek.

  He toyed with her. Why? What was to gain from the baron laughing at her pain?

  She stopped and looked up into the blue-gray sky. What if sharing the deepest part of her heart was the price to pay to gain a champion?

  Was the cost too high or was her pride too much?

  She was sweating, caught between crying and shouting.

  Mathew had challenged her and so had Ewan, in different ways, but each had always made her think. Maybe this frustration was another way to challenge her. She swiped at her eyes, mopped at her temples. If the baron was moved at all by her letter, he would make a much better match than the dry squire.

  Crumbling the paper, she stuffed it in her pocket. A wife beyond reproach. Could she ever be that woman, to any man? Mathew had understood her past, well, the parts she’d shared. Would he have counted her as beyond reproach?

  Theodosia couldn’t think anymore. She trudged deeper into the fields. Before she knew it, she was waist deep in lavender and couldn’t move any further. Why was she tormenting herself? She should accept the squire. He had been the second response to her newspaper advertisement. All the lies, the regrets of the past would be put away if she married him. She rubbed at her arms, raised her face to the storm clouds. “I give up.”

  Horse’s hooves pounded from behind.

  She whirled to see who was coming toward her. With a blink, it was six years ago, and it was Mathew riding out to inspect his fields. He’d caught Theodosia picking flowers, stealing them, the week prior, but had then given his permission for her to take from his fields. He’d even had baskets waiting for her to carry away more than she could wrap in her skirt. It had been so welcome and unexpected. The Fitzwilliams had banned her from their land, but she’d had to earn some money to eat. And the low pain from the swell in her gut, the little one, had needed food, too.