The Resurrection of Lady Ramsleigh

by Bowlin, Chasity

  “You must stop,” Viola scolded. It was less than effective as she was giggling herself.

  “I daresay, the floors have survived worse,” Nicholas murmured. “Your gown may not recover, however.”

  She turned and glanced back at him. “He’s always loved his bath time. Any body of water, in fact. He’d be splashing in the waves on the beach right now if he could get to them.”

  “Then when the weather warms, we shall take him,” Nicholas offered.

  “You needn’t do that,” she said. “I understand your interest in me, Nicholas. And obviously your interest is returned—I have not yet decided whether or not to act upon that interest,” she warned, “but you needn’t play nursemaid to my son in order to court my favor. I do owe you my life, after all.”

  “You owe me nothing. As for playing nursemaid to curry your favor, that is an insult to all of us. I like children, Viola. I find their company and their exuberance in all things to be rather refreshing. They are so much more honest than the rest of us.”

  “I’ve offended you and that was not my intent,” she offered apologetically.

  “No. You haven’t. You have, however, underscored for me just how utterly deplorable most of the men of your acquaintance must have been. Rest assured, there are men who are capable of honesty and action free of ulterior motives.”

  At that moment, Tristan showed his displeasure at having to share his mother’s attention and let out a viciously shrill screech, accompanied by a healthy splash of his bath water which thoroughly drenched Viola.

  She sighed and turned back to the boy, lifting him from the tub and wrapping a towel about him. He kicked in protest and screamed again. Both of which were dealt with in a patient and unfailingly kind manner. She distracted the boy with tickles and funny faces as she dried him and fastened a nappy over his bottom and dressed him in a simply-embroidered gown.

  “Perhaps we can court his good humor with some of the scones I bribed from the cook?” Nicholas suggested, and pulled back the serviette that covered the small platter he carried. It was piled with cold meats, cheeses, breads, and the aforementioned scones drizzled with a still warm sugary glaze. There was also a serving of mashed vegetables for Tristan.

  “Oh, that looks divine,” Viola admitted. “I didn’t realize I was hungry!”

  Tristan certainly knew. He was already eagerly reaching for the treat. “Real food first or the sweets?” Nicholas asked.

  “I ought to say real food, but clearly he knows what he wants. I’ve missed him so terribly, I’m inclined to indulge him at the moment,” she admitted ruefully.

  Nicholas laughed as he gave the boy a small bite of one of the scones. “I suspected as much.” Watching the child tear into the sticky treat, he added, “It might have been wiser to bathe him after breakfast.”

  Viola sighed. “We’ll wash his face and hands again and change his gown… yet again.”

  Nicholas seated himself on the floor, crossed his legs and absentmindedly chose a small bit of cheese and bread from the plate. Casually, as if he weren’t admitting something of great importance, he said, “I think I rather like Lord Ambrose. He’s not at all as I had expected him to be.”

  He saw her smile, the soft curving of her lips in that knowing way that all women seemed to have mastered from the cradle.

  “I thought you might,” she said softly.

  “Oh, really? And how did you know so much of Lord Ambrose?”

  “I don’t,” she replied. “What I do know is that my late husband sometimes entertained his father—your father—and that while he was never anything but pleasant to me, the late Lord Ambrose often bemoaned just how much of a prude his heir was.”

  Nicholas considered that. “I wouldn’t call him a prude… he simply isn’t a libertine.”

  “One man’s good behavior is another man’s prudishness,” she mused as she sat back on her heels and tore off a small bit of the scone for Tristan. “There are those who would have considered my late husband a good man… because he did treat other men with courtesy and respect. It was women, servants, those poorer than himself that faced his wrath and ill temper. When you haven’t the means to fight back or a voice to be heard, it matters little enough what you say of someone.”

  It was a phenomenon he was familiar with. He’d been enrolled at a small, private school, not as prestigious as Eton or Harrow, but still well respected and attended by the sons of gentry and less well-heeled nobility. As the bastard of a profligate rake, he’d often been accused of infractions he had not committed or singled out to take the blame for the bad behavior of other boys. No amount of protest on his part would have made a bit of difference and, instead, often made his punishment worse. He’d learned simply to accept it and be done with it.

  “That is true enough,” he agreed. “I think I may help him in his endeavor to locate any other siblings we may have.”

  “Is that what you want or what he wants?” Viola asked.

  “It is what he wants, but I find myself inclined to indulge him. I also feel that I may be a bit more well-versed in the ways of the world than Lord Ambrose. Without someone to guide him, I fear he may come to a great deal of trouble in his pursuits,” Nicholas admitted. Lord Ambrose was not necessarily naive, but he’d been far more sheltered from the ugliness of the world than Nicholas had. That fact was glaringly apparent.

  “Will you go with him then?” Viola asked.

  Her tone was odd. When he looked up, he could see that she appeared somewhat crestfallen. “Will you miss me if I do?” he asked.

  “Of course, I would. We are friends, are we not?” she asked evasively.

  “We are at least friends… I would that we were much more. But then you’re aware of that, Viola. You want more as well, I think. You must simply be brave enough to pursue it,” he reminded her gently.

  “There is a great deal at stake.”

  “There is,” he agreed. “But that is true regardless of which direction you decide.”

  At that moment, Tristan approached him, not the least bit shy and attempted to feed Nicholas the bite of scone his mother had just handed him. Dutifully, Nicholas took it and made all the appropriate noises to indicate his enjoyment of the treat. The little boy giggled and clapped his hands delightedly.

  *

  Watching the way Nicholas interacted with her son, his clear enjoyment of the boy and the ease he seemed to have with him, Viola knew that her decision was made. Had there ever been any doubt that she would succumb to his charms?

  “You are very good with him,” she commented.

  “I like children. That certainly helps when treating them while they are at their worst,” he said. “Though it does carry certain risks in and of itself. I hate to lose any of my patients, but the younger they are, the more painful the loss.”

  Viola shuddered at the thought of it. She had been remarkably lucky. Tristan was a very healthy child and had suffered only the most minor of illnesses. Her aunt had insisted that it was the sea air that kept his lungs clear and protected him from the putrid throat infection that so many children perished from. It also helped, Viola thought, they’d she’d kept them so isolated on the small farm. Having no notion that Percival had fabricated her death, she’d attempted to be as discreet as possible about her whereabouts. The last thing she’d wanted was for her husband to come and drag her back to Ramsgate Hall before Tristan was old enough to travel safely.

  “I can’t imagine how awful that must be… for you and for their poor parents. Thank goodness, Tristan has always enjoyed remarkable health!”

  Nicholas smiled at that. “Considering that you’ve cheated death twice now, I would say he comes from remarkably hardy stock.”

  She grimaced. “Only once… and only because you risked life and limb yourself to haul me from the water.”

  “I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Every day if need be,” he said solemnly.

  “Let’s hope it never comes to that,” she said and offered Trista
n a bit of the cold ham to offset the sweetness of the scone. He took it, but with noticeably less enthusiasm. “You should know that I’ve reached a decision.”

  “About what?”

  “About the nature of our friendship,” she said softly.

  He paused in the act of tickling her son’s ribs to glance over at her. “More quickly than I had anticipated, it would seem.”

  “Come to my room tonight,” she said softly.

  “Viola, I am in no way trying to dissuade you, but I do want you to be certain,” he said solemnly.

  “I am quite certain. I think that I was always certain, if the truth were known. It feels rather inevitable, doesn’t it?”

  “For me, yes,” he agreed. “I was drawn to you from the moment I first laid eyes on you. Now, I have to go. If I stay, knowing your current mindset, I don’t know that I would be able to continue behaving as a gentleman ought to, and oddly enough, behaving as a gentleman is rather important to me where you are concerned.”

  Viola watched him leave, pausing only long enough to ruffle Tristan’s damp curls before exiting the nursery. She looked at her son and said, “I do hope that he does not break my heart… and I hope that when the time comes when your heart is vulnerable to members of the opposite sex, that you find your heart and mind engaged by someone who can challenge both and return your affections. If not, it’s a terrible muddle to be in.”

  The nurse entered then, her eyebrows raised in shock. “What on earth was the doctor doing in here? Our little angel hasn’t taken ill from the journey, has he?”

  “No, Belinda,” Viola answered. “Dr. Warner was here to visit… he has become a particular friend since I arrived here.”

  The nurse cackled. More than twice Viola’s age, she’d been a maternal figure when acting as Viola’s maid and doted on Tristan as a grandmother might. “A particular friend, is he now? Women are not friends with men that handsome! And as you’re a widow now, who’s to say anything about who you choose to keep company with?”

  “I’m also apparently dead,” Viola said, hoping to change the subject. “Percival and my father cooked up a scheme to fake my death, likely to claim the inheritance left to me by my grandfather. The entirety of the village and all of London society believes that I perished. Needless to say, washing up on the beaches here from a shipwreck came as something of a surprise to everyone. Naturally, Randall is being difficult about the entire thing.”

  Belinda’s lip curled with distaste. “Unpleasant my eye! He’s a bully. Never in my life have I ever seen a boy that took such pleasure in the pain of others! He’ll not make it easy on you, especially not with what your late husband did. But you will prevail, my lady. I’ve no doubt. And little Tristan will take his rightful place at Ramsgate Hall.”

  “What if he doesn’t?” Viola asked. “Would it be so awful for him to not be acknowledged as the Ramsleigh heir? We both know the truth of his parentage, Belinda. He’s a Grantham, but he isn’t Percival’s!”

  “He is by law… and if that man wishes to challenge it, then his own actions will be brought under scrutiny. He’s not well liked enough to risk it, I think.”

  That was true enough, but Viola also knew that his spite was boundless. He’d see her and Tristan both ruined even at a cost to himself. “If I agreed to disappear again, to take Tristan away and never challenge him for the title, he might release enough of the funds for us to make an escape. We could live a quiet life somewhere without Tristan ever being touched by the inherent corruption of that place or the family he hails from.”

  “He’d never permit it,” Belinda said softly. “He’s a man without honor and so that is how he views others. He’d never trust you to keep your word because he’s incapable of keeping his own. You’d be hunted for the rest of your days and so would that dear boy. Best to make a stand here while you have the support of others just as powerful as Randall Grantham!”

  Viola sighed wearily. “I hate to pull them into this, Belinda… they don’t deserve it. They are good people and will be embroiled in this ugly process for too long.”

  “Including the good doctor?” Belinda asked with a knowing smirk. “You thought to change the subject, but I’m like an old dog with its favorite bone. He’s very handsome. He also appears quite taken with you, as you are with him.”

  “I am,” Viola admitted. She had no secrets from Belinda. Even the shameful abuses of her husband and his nephew were known to the other woman as it had been Belinda who had tended her in the aftermath of their cruelty. “I’ve decided to take him as my lover.”

  Belinda nodded. “I suspected you might one day wish to know a man’s touch by choice rather than force. There’s no shame in it.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Viola agreed. “He’s a rarity, Belinda… a genuinely good man.”

  “Then why are you afraid?”

  Viola shrugged and glanced at Tristan who was occupied with a small toy he’d found. She smiled as he turned the simple, wooden horse over and over in his chubby hands. “Because even a good man can break your heart.”

  “Then let us hope it is worth the risk,” the nurse answered.

  Chapter Twelve

  Timothy Cobb was on his third pint of ale. His speech was still crisp and he wasn’t even close to being in his cups yet. That was well enough, though. He might be drinking on the job, but as long as he was drinking Tarley couldn’t throw him out of the tavern. There was no better place to sow the seeds of discontent.

  “It ain’t right, I tell you. It ain’t natural,” he whispered to the man next to him.

  “It ain’t right, but it ain’t got nothing to do with me,” the man answered.

  “Is that right, John Alberts? Nothing to do with you, does it? Didn’t you lose two lambs last week alone? And ain’t your dear wife developed a cough she can’t get rid of?” Cobb pointed out.

  The other man looked decidedly uncomfortable. “That don’t mean nothin!”

  “Oh, and your neighbor, old Farnsworth… his well went dry, didn’t it?”

  “I ain’t got no quarrel with her and I won’t be making an enemy of the new Lord Blakemore,” Alberts replied. “You can stop your wheedling, Timothy Cobb.”

  “I don’t think he should!”

  The protest came from a neighboring table. An ancient, dirty, raggedly-dressed man with blackened teeth and a cloudy eye was the source. “What say you, Ned Chambers? You were here the last time a witch was found in Blackfield, were you not?”

  “Aye, I was. Old Fanny Eddington, it was… hung her in the square for cavorting with the devil on the full moon!” Chambers replied. “It was just like it is now! Lambs dying off left and right, wells drying up, cows going mad and charging their owners in the fields! That Osbourne boy was trampled by one and died after three days of talking out of his head, gibberish about the devil. Cursed by Old Fanny, he was!”

  “It’s all nonsense!” John Alberts protested. “You say she’s come back from the dead and I say that not a single person ever saw her body. For all we know, she left that blackguard Ramsleigh and rightly so, from what I heard of him. He could well have buried a box of stones in that churchyard and we’d never know the difference!”

  “I know the difference,” Chambers said. “I dug the grave and I filled it in. Thought I heard a noise from that coffin. Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve made a mistake and buried someone alive… I looked inside it. Saw her laid out there plain as day, I did. Black hair shining and looking fresh as a girl at her first dance! Gave me cold chills then, just as it does now.” The old man shoved the sleeve of his coat up to reveal the gooseflesh on his dirty skin. “Even then, I knew it weren’t natural. Something was off about the whole thing. And now I know why. I could feel the evil, I tell you. I could feel it!”

  Cobb concealed his smile behind his tankard. The old man had given a performance worthy of even the finest London theaters. For the promise of a pint and coin enough to purchase the company of his favorite whore, the man had lied wit
h the conviction of a saint. The other patrons began to whisper, some of them making signs to ward off the evil eye and other superstitious nonsense. Ned Chambers had earned every shilling that Tim had promised him and then some.

  “And what about poor William Wells?” someone asked from a darkened corner. “Talked about her, about how the doctor saved her… and he’s not been seen or heard from since!”

  “What’ll it take, Alberts?” Cobb asked, quickly averting the topic of Wells. “Will your wife have to die first? Or your children? You think the devil let her come back here without a bargain to sacrifice the lot of us? Maybe she did escape her husband and maybe he was a cruel bastard… but that doesn’t mean she’s any better.”

  “Do what you will, Timothy Cobb, but I’ll not be a party to it,” the farmer said and rose from the table to leave.

  “What should we do then?” another voice called out from near the hearth. The cry was followed by a chorus of “ayes”.

  “The good book says… ‘suffer not a witch to live’,” Chambers intoned melodramatically.

  “There you have it,” Cobb said. “The answer is plain as day to me even if there’s some what don’t want to see it.”

  “We’ll march up to Castle Black and take her by force if need be!” one man said, rising to his feet.

  “It won’t be quite that easy. We’ll need to be certain Lord Blakemore and Dr. Warner are well away,” Cobb replied reasonably. “It’s one thing to hang a witch that’s already dead. It’s another to kill a titled lord. We’d all hang for it.”

  “What do you suggest?” the man demanded.

  “Let the ground dry up a bit… and then we’ll set a fire on the estate. Just large enough to draw them away from the house,” Cobb offered. “When they’ve gone, we’ll take her and see that God’s work is done.”

  A chorus of agreement went up, but Tarley, the innkeeper, chose that moment to intervene. “The lot of you are mad… and led like sheep by this charlatan! You’ll hang for it. I swear you will. If I have to go to the magistrate myself!”