Bound with Love

by Megan Mulry

  “He said that?” Nora whispered, not caring that she sounded like a desperate schoolgirl.

  Vanessa got up from the chair and situated herself cross-legged on the bed, petting Nora’s hair and speaking in a soothing tone. “Oh, my dear Nora. How he adored you. I’d never seen him like that, so consumed. He’d always been very stubborn and single-minded, I suppose.”

  Nora had adored his methodical bookish ways, and what a contrast they were to his carefree, if determined, lovemaking.

  “But you obviously made him see . . . a different side of things. He seemed to have come alive after he met you.” Vanessa smiled, a knowing woman’s smile, but very quickly her brow furrowed with sadness. “At least he wrote you all the time.”

  Nora shook her head in confused silence.

  “Did you never receive any of his letters? He thought you had a friend to whom he could send them in confidence.”

  “No. I never received anything from him.”

  “Oh, my sweet girl.” Vanessa hugged her gently—Nora thought she heard her mutter something that sounded like that bastard—then sat back on the bed. “Well, he did. And he left copies of them all in his letter book in London. You will get to read them, one day soon. Still—” Vanessa shook her head. “Such a waste. Such good men.”

  Something inside Nora fluttered, something that had been broken, or beaten, or nearly destroyed. “His life was not a waste, Vanessa.” Her voice was still scratchy from little use. “He did save me, whether he actually came back to get me or not. Whether I received his letters or not. I believed in him. And he let me believe that life was not entirely awful. The month we spent together was the most—” Her voice cracked and more tears came.

  Vanessa leaned down and pulled her into another hug. “I know, love. I know. Sometimes I get so angry with Martin for dying, for abandoning me and the children—as crazy as that sounds—and then I am so grateful that we had him at all. Men like that do not come along often. I feel like we were lucky to have known them, and we need to be grateful for that fact. But I feel robbed most of the time.”

  Nora nodded and pressed her forehead against Vanessa’s shoulder. She offered the comfort of a friend, a sister, a nurse—her welcoming arms strong and kind. Nora was protected, nurtured. Perhaps she could recover. Perhaps she could reinvent herself. She fell asleep in Vanessa’s arms and drifted off to the sound of gentle humming. The sweetest sound she’d ever heard.

  Camburton Castle – July 1810

  “There you are!” Archie barreled into the studio, then pulled himself up short.

  “Shhhh!” Vanessa chided.

  “Oh dear. What’s the matter?” he whispered, kneeling by the chaise and reaching for Nora’s wrist, exactly as he had all those years ago as a boy in Madrid.

  Vanessa watched her son, no longer playing doctor but having become the real thing. At twenty-six he was one of the most promising research physicians in England. She moved herself from behind Nora and settled her lover’s sleeping form into a more comfortable position against the chaise. Nora’s breathing was still shallow, but she had finally fallen asleep after the damnable upset. Vanessa caressed her cheek lovingly, then turned to Archie. “Come with me.”

  They moved to the far side of the studio, near the open window that offered a view out across the deer park. “We’ve received some news of a very disturbing nature,” she began.

  Archie took a deep breath. “Not to be cavalier, but you are frequently receiving news of a disturbing nature, Mother.”

  Vanessa’s lip quirked. He was so much like her, always seeing the humor in the direst situations. “I didn’t say disturbing, I said very disturbing. There’s a difference.”

  “I’m sorry to make light. That’s your fault, you know.”

  She patted his cheek. “I know. I’ve done a terrible job, haven’t I? Making you see the best in everything?”

  He put his hand over hers. “Yes, Mother, truly abominable. You’ve taught me to be caring and attentive and happy. You should really be sent away to the asylum for your abhorrent parenting.”

  She smiled at his humor, then frowned at the memory of what Nora was going through; she let her hand drop from his face. “Alas. There may be a silver lining eventually, but for now, Nora is quite overwrought. She may have a . . . relation . . . who is coming to visit.”

  Archie’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in thought. “Really? And how did you come upon this information? Are you sure it’s not some fortune hunter come to swindle Nora for some nefarious purpose?”

  “You’re so delightfully protective. But I don’t think it has the least hint of nefarious purpose. Have you been reading Selina Ashby’s gothic novels?”

  He quirked a smile. “Well, you’ve always made me feel like I was far too normal for my own good, so you have to forgive me if I’m starting to take an interest in her perfectly ghastly popular stories.”

  “I think you’re taking an interest in more than her stories, but that’s not for me to say.”

  “You are correct—”

  She clasped her hands together. “Oh! So you are taking an interest? You like her?”

  “I meant, you are correct that it is not for you to say. Whatever I may or may not feel for Selina is none of your affair—”

  “Oh! It’s an affair is it?”

  “You’re incorrigible, Mother.”

  “I know.” She sighed and looked back out the window. Two young men were walking hand in hand near the edge of the lake. “I’m a hopeless romantic.” She waved at them and they waved in reply, smiling broadly. Trevor Mayson had grown up at Mayfield, the adjacent estate, and now lived there with his particular friend, James Rushford. Vanessa smiled at the euphemistic term the Dowager Duchess of Mandeville had used in her letter. The two young gentlemen often roamed the grounds at Camburton, on foot or on horseback, and frequently stopped by unannounced, especially on the rare occasions when Vanessa’s daughter, Georgiana, was at home. Trevor and Georgie had been best friends since they were old enough to climb the fence stile between the two estates.

  “Not hopeless. Hopeful.” Archie waved as well, but with a distracted air.

  Vanessa turned to her handsome son, so much like his father with that wavy, uncontrollable head of blond hair and the stern curve of his mouth. Until he smiled. Again, like his father, when he smiled all sternness was lost to pure delight. “Yes, you are quite right. I’m hopeful. Which brings us back to my darling Nora.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Nora was still napping, then looked meaningfully at Archie. “Have you been with Farleigh at all recently?”

  “Mother.” Archie folded his arms across his chest.

  She waved a hand in front of her face. “Oh, I don’t mean it like that—though if you were ever inclined to dabble or explore, he would be the man to—”

  “Mother! I am not repressed. I am just . . . particular.” He was exasperated, but he was smiling nonetheless. It was such an old conversation between them. Vanessa simply wanted to ensure that her son knew he could love whomever he chose, however he chose, as far as she was concerned. And, yes, well, she might have belabored the point on occasion.

  “I know you are,” she said cheerfully. “I only meant have you seen him, not have you fornicated.”

  “Mother!” he whispered, so as not to wake Nora, but he was obviously appalled.

  She smiled, loving how her bawdy language always set him to blushing. And her language was mild compared to Georgie’s. Archie’s twin could turn his face beet red in a matter of moments. “Honestly, we could go on like this all day, bantering, but—” she took a deep breath “—we must push on.”

  “To answer your question, yes, I have seen Farleigh as a matter of fact—in London, a few months ago. He seemed quite taken with his wife and son. I saw them all in Hyde Park, with their close friends the Montizons.” He looked more closely at her. “Why? Is something amiss?”

  “What was she like?” Vanessa asked with intense curiosity. />
  “Who? Farleigh’s wife? She’s a glorious creature, tall and dark and vigorous. I don’t know what she sees in Farleigh. Damn lucky of him to find someone so enchanting who puts up with his foolery, I say.”

  Vanessa pursed her lips. “Loving both men and women is not foolery, Archibald.”

  He rolled his eyes at her use of his full name. “I know that, Vanessa. I only meant, oh, hell, I don’t know—he’s such a joker. She’s a lovely girl in any case. He’s lucky in any case.” He stared at her, challenging her to question him again.

  She shook her head. “That’s all fine, but she’s not the woman I want to know about. The other one, Anna de Montizon . . . how did she seem?”

  “Hmm, I can’t rightly say. Her husband is rather protective when they are out in company. I’ve heard she can be quite vivacious at smaller dinner parties and such, but when I saw them in the park, it was all eyes-downcast and that sort of thing.”

  “Really?” she wondered.

  “Where is this all headed anyway?”

  Vanessa looked into his amber eyes, those damnably gorgeous Cambury eyes. “How did she look? Her appearance? Was she attractive?”

  “How should I know?” He tossed a hand as if he were far too busy to take note of such particulars.

  “For a man who observes and performs research as his primary occupation, you are quite useless.”

  “I perform research through a microscope, Mother, not through the dappled sunlight of London parks as it reflects upon petite blonde Spanish ladies.”

  “So she’s petite and blonde, then?”

  “Oh, I suppose.”

  “What was she wearing? Could you see her neck?”

  “Her neck? What are you on about? Of course I couldn’t see her neck. I was on horseback and she was strolling, and wearing a fichu of some sort, all while under the protective hold of her husband, several yards away. I barely caught sight of her face. What is it you are really asking?”

  “I believe she may be Nora’s lost baby.”

  “What?” His voice cracked on the question. “I never knew Nora had any children.”

  “Yes. Nora had a child.”

  “How? When? This is news. I can’t understand why you never told me. Why did she never claim her?”

  “You stupid man—”

  “I may be stupid, but it’s not because I’m a man. You taught me that, remember?”

  “Do stop throwing my own good-intentioned advice back in my face! I meant, why is your first reaction to blame Nora for everything?”

  He inhaled. “I didn’t blame Nora for anything. How could you think such a thing? I only wondered how she could’ve remained separated from her own child all these years. She seems the relentless sort, and I can’t imagine her giving up hope.”

  Vanessa frowned as she realized she had lashed out at Archie when in fact her own selfishness was far more to blame. “We all thought the baby had died. We had to get Nora out of Spain—do you remember?—before her husband learned she had survived the hell he’d put her through.” She felt a pang of guilt. “I may have— No, I probably did encourage her to believe the baby had died. How else could she go on? We had to leave Madrid, and I knew she never would if there was even the slightest chance she believed the child had lived.”

  “Mother.” He reached for her upper arm and squeezed. “Of course you wanted her to begin healing.”

  Vanessa was not prone to sustained guilt, but about this she had always remained deeply troubled. “I’m not always so magnanimous, Archie. I was falling in love with her, and I wasn’t about to give her up. There were rumors below stairs; the servants in Uncle Fitz’s house knew everything that was happening in the other aristocratic houses in Madrid. There were whispers of two nuns who’d left Madrid that night with an infant—”

  “Well,” Archie hesitated. He was so honorable; she could practically see how he was setting her down a peg in his estimation. “You were acting with Nora’s best interests . . . in your heart.”

  “No, Archie. I confess it. I was not!” She was still whispering, but it was hoarse and desperate. “In my heart I suspected the truth, or maybe even knew it on some level. But she wouldn’t have survived it. He would have killed her.” She gripped Archie’s hands in hers, begging for absolution.

  He let her hold on for as long as she needed to, until her grip eased. “You must tell her, Mother. You know you must. Neither of you will be well until you unburden yourself and beg for Nora’s forgiveness. That was not your decision to make.”

  She leaned her cheek against the smooth silk of his lapel. “Will you forgive me, Archie?”

  He hugged her close. “I forgive you everything, Mother. But it is not my forgiveness you need to be asking for. You’ve always let me live my own life. It’s Nora, and maybe even Georgie, you need to consider.”

  Vanessa wiped the tears from her cheeks and looked into his eyes. “Why Georgie?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  She gripped his upper arm. “No, tell me.”

  Archie stared out the window again, and Vanessa saw Rushford and Mayson in the distance, nearing the edge of the park. She wished he could find such peace one day. Companionship. Something uncomplicated and pure. He turned back to her.

  “You have a habit of thinking you know what’s best for people, Mother. Which, I’m sure, as a parent, is part of your wonderful skills, and very difficult to leave off, but . . .” His voice faded.

  “Just say it, Archie.”

  “Very well. Georgie is full-grown. She is precisely the same age as I am, for goodness’ sake—those seventeen minutes notwithstanding. And you still speak of her as some sort of project in need of fixing.”

  Vanessa gazed out the window again. “You’re right, of course. Especially when you put it like that. I’ve fallen prey to every prejudice I sought to destroy. In my mind, you are a success because you have an occupation. And she is somehow . . . not . . . because she lacks a loving relationship.”

  Archie waited silently until she turned to make eye contact. “If that’s what you think, you have us all jumbled up.” He smiled sadly. “Because I am the one in need of a loving relationship, and Georgie is the one who has already found a satisfying occupation.”

  “Oh, Archibald Cambury. You are a blessing in my life.” She hugged him close.

  Montagu House, London – December 1790

  “One must go to a ball eventually, Nora.”

  Vanessa was badgering her again, and Nora wanted to scream. Or cry. Or kiss her.

  No! In God’s name, what is wrong with me? Nora chided herself silently. She was supposed to be indebted to Vanessa for her unending kindness, not lusting after her. But lately she kept having the strangest notions—ideas, dreams, secrets, strange images that would flash in her mind—of Vanessa’s long, smooth neck when she craned to look up at the ceiling of Westminster Abbey, or the soft skin along the turn of her bare shoulder when she brought a wineglass to her lips. Contemplating those more pedestrian body parts, she tried to tell herself, was mere artistic observation: curves, angles, that sort of thing. But lately, oh dear, lately she found herself imagining the heat inside Vanessa’s mouth, or the delectable swell of her friend’s bosom when she wore the green velvet dress she was wearing now. And those thoughts were both terrifying and joyful.

  Nora hadn’t worked it out entirely, but she had finally come to accept—after night upon lonely night of trying to enumerate all the appropriate ways in which she was allowed to love Vanessa Cambury—that she did indeed love her. When Nora thought of Vanessa, she couldn’t help but think of how much she loved her. And when she thought of how much she loved her, she couldn’t help but think of her body, and then—quite naturally, it seemed to her—of loving Vanessa’s body with her own.

  Initially, she had been dogged by the guilt of so many years of catechism, but the past few months had made her less afraid of God and his punishments. Perhaps suffering so brutally at the hand of a man had se
rved one good purpose: it allowed Nora to put thoughts of eternal damnation upon some faraway shelf. Even so, the last thing Nora needed was to subject herself to a glittering ball that would only serve up the dual punishment of being courted by men in whom she held no interest, while watching Vanessa swan about the room in a revealing ball gown that would make her even more impossible to ignore.

  “Why?” Nora asked peevishly, as she finished putting away her paints. The children were sound asleep upstairs—after the nightly ritual of Nora reading one bedtime story and Vanessa reading another—and she had been looking forward to nothing more than a relaxing few hours after dinner, listening to Vanessa play the piano or doing a bit of sketching, then, perhaps listening to Uncle Fitz read aloud. Over time, the sweet man had become Nora’s de facto uncle as well.

  “Why what?” Vanessa was doing four things at once of course: reading a book about economics, taking notes with one hand, reaching for a sip of water with the other . . . and badgering Nora. Uncle had gone to his library upstairs to fetch a novel, and probably wouldn’t return for some time. He tended to get waylaid in the presence of books.

  “Why must I go to a ball?” Nora asked irritably. “I go to the park. I’ve met Mr. Reynolds and Miss Kauffman of the Royal Academy. Why—after filling up my days—must I also participate in some dreadful parade of gowns and fripperies in the evening?” She was annoyed by the topic and even more annoyed by the fact she’d had to repeat herself. Lately it seemed Vanessa was never able to give Nora her full attention.

  Setting aside the book, the pen, and the glass of water, Vanessa looked like she was finally ready to focus all of said attention . . . on the badgering. Perhaps Nora shouldn’t have been so hasty to judge her friend’s habit of doing too many things at once; the alternative was terrifying.

  “Because you are ready, Nora, and you simply must. Some things can’t be helped. People are beginning to suspect Uncle Fitz and I abducted someone named Nora White and are holding her captive in our attic after sundown. Your story is becoming very Castle of Otranto in the drawing rooms around town, you know. And also, you and I must find husbands.” Vanessa turned away and looked toward the crackling fire, as if the last words had stuck in her throat. “Or at least I must,” she added with unusual quietness. “My period of mourning is over.”