Clara herself up stiffly. Her veins had turned to ice. “Branson was my betrothed. I was not in his care—I was his wife.”
“It comes down to the same thing, Clara. You claim you were married to Mr. Hamilton but you told your father the offer of marriage was a trick. It never came off. Can you explain?”
“I—it was—that is—I thought I was to be married soon. My cousin had some issues to resolve and—I—”
“You engaged in sexual intercourse with your cousin. There was no marriage. I am not here to judge, but to help you see that it was this act of sexual promiscuity that provoked the accusation of rape you made against your father. It is called transference. You transferred your guilt to your father. Wouldn’t you agree this is the most likely explanation for what you saw?”
A series of compelling emotions washed through her. Clara fought for calm. The urge to agree with the doctor’s analysis, to agree to all of it if it meant being released, was strong.
“I-I cannot,” she cried out. “I have spent my life agreeing with monstrous statements and acts of violence, accepting the unacceptable, betraying my soul—and for my pains I have been institutionalized. If I am meant to live out my days here, I will live them as an honest woman. Arthur Hamilton raped Grace Leeds seven years ago and I am the only witness. That is the story I shall tell from this day forward.”
Dr. Rutledge’s cool façade was momentarily shattered. “I am sorry to hear that. You leave me no choice.” He rang for the orderly. “As you have refused a less invasive method of treatment, I will institute a more aggressive tactic to curb your psychosis. Your father’s instructions are clear. He will not consider your return to his house until you are completely free of this demon and the task has fallen to me to make you well again.”
The orderly unlocked the door from the outside and stepped into the office. “Yes, sir?”
“Miss Hamilton requires an escort to her room. Schedule an ice bath for the patient within the hour.”
“No!”
The orderly, a burly man with ginger hair, grabbed her around the waist and hauled Clara from the office like a sack of potatoes.
Chapter Three
Windemere Parish, later that afternoon
VICAR WIMBLEY took a step back. “Good God! Mistress Hamilton is confined to Gateshead! That is shocking news, sir. I am terribly sorry to hear it, but I must admit I am perplexed. To release your wife, you will have to gain your proof of marriage from the church you attended in London.”
There was an aggrieved tone in Wimbley’s voice. Clearly, the vicar held a grudge.
“There isn’t time,” Branson said curtly. “I will be travelling to Berkshire as soon as I have the parish records. Clara cannot stay in that place a moment longer. She is in grave danger. It is imperative I get to her as soon as possible.”
“Surely it is not as dire as that! A day or two will do her no harm.”
Even Branson was puzzled by the dread he felt. A premonition of great loss. “It will not, Vicar. I must take the parish records this instant. I am asserting my right to do so as master of Windemere Hall and a gentleman.”
“But what you ask is impossible, sir! There is no record of your marriage in that volume. It will not be of any use to you. I wish I could give you better news but I confess, I am somewhat bewildered by this plan of yours.”
Branson had not wanted to tell the vicar everything but he had no choice: the danger to Clara was coming closer with every second he stood here arguing the point. He had hoped the offer of a generous donation would be enough. Apparently, it would take a blood oath after all to move Wimbley.
“I have to tell you something, Vicar, in the strictest confidence. Clara and I were not married in London. We are not married at all. Her father forced her into accepting my offer of marriage before she was ready. So, without her father’s knowledge, we decided to prolong the engagement period and get to know one another better. Though we knew each other as children, we had not spoken for many years. Clara had recently suffered a collapse that precipitated a rest cure. I did not want to push her into marriage against her will and risk a relapse. The strain on her nerves would be too much.”
“Most admirable, Master Hamilton,” Wimbley murmured approvingly. “Most admirable, and quite in keeping with Christian doctrine. The sacrament of marriage is not to be entered into lightly. Far too many fathers have turned it into a business arrangement these days. I cannot pretend I am not shocked by your confession, however. You have put Miss Hamilton’s reputation grievously at risk. I presume you mean to marry the girl as soon as you have secured her release from Gateshead?”
Here it comes. The blood oath. “You have my word on it. This has been a grave lesson to me, sir. I should never have allowed it to come to this. My hesitation permitted her father to retain his authority over her, though I never imagined he would stoop to this. I mean to make Miss Clara Hamilton my wife as soon as it can be arranged.”
Vicar Wimbley’s expression became very grave as the full scope of Branson’s predicament became clear. “There is only one solution, sir. You must prove to the Director of Gateshead that you are Miss Hamilton’s husband. And for that, I will have to alter the official record that is held in trust by this parish.”
Branson strained against his impatience. “I would make the notation myself but if you are willing, the record must show that our wedding took place on September twenty-first. You have my word I shall make good on the entry in a manner befitting the dignity of this parish and yourself.”
“By that, I take it you mean a wedding of some substance.”
“A grand affair!” Branson ticked off the promises he had no hope of keeping. “A reception, flowers, music, dancing, an eight-course dinner—followed by a ball held at Windemere. But first I must liberate the bride without delay!”
Vicar Wimbley took up the task with alacrity, filling in the marriage date on the appropriate line. He accepted the donation Branson thrust upon him with gracious humility and pencilled the future Hamilton wedding in on his private calendar. “I do look forward to meeting with your betrothed,” he said with a guileless smile.
The vicar’s complete lack of curiosity as to the reason for Clara’s commitment in the first place was truly remarkable. Branson was not about draw it to the man’s attention. He wrapped the Windemere Parish Records in his leather satchel and made his escape before Wimbley could change his mind.
§
London ~ Colonel Brockville’s home, that evening
CAPTAIN STRACHAN listened without interest to the dinner conversation that swirled around him. His mind was on more important matters than society gossip. Several days had passed since Clara Hamilton was confined to Gateshead Asylum. If he was serious about winning her, he would have to use his father’s influence to get her out and soon.
Strachan had given the matter a great deal of thought over the past few days. Clara’s reluctance to become his mistress was understandable on the face of it. After all, she had been primed to think she would be his wife one day. Her love for him was too strong to accept anything less. She’d been insulted by his offer at first—yes—but after spending time in an insane asylum with no hope for release, he felt certain Clara would see sense.
It was clear her desire for him was as hot as ever—it only required manipulation to be made of use. As his mistress, Clara Hamilton would make a passionate and yet submissive plaything. Her devotion would keep her willing and his power over her offered up so many interesting notions for their bed play.
Sadly, the same could not be said for his fiancée, Miss Trudy Delisle. She looked beautiful tonight, as always. Not a hair out of place, perfectly poised and in control of her emotions. Trudy would never strike a man across the face in the heat of anger.
Strachan still felt the blow Clara had landed under his left eye. His little stammering caterpillar had emerged from her cocoon in the form of a fiery butterfly. Her blood red lips taunted him to give chase. Down her head would go,
his hands pulling her hair, forcing those lips apart to take his rigid manhood—
“Captain Strachan, a penny for your thoughts?”
He blinked, rudely yanked from his reverie. “Yes, my dear?”
Trudy dimpled but her eyes were cold. “We shall have none of your solitary brooding tonight. Do let us know what you have been meditating on with such absorption? If you say it is our wedding, I shall have to call you out. You have not shown a sliver of interest since our engagement was announced.”
He forced a smile to his lips and turned appealingly to his hostess, Mrs. Brockville. “My lovely lady does not exaggerate. I’ve been distracted of late by a recent business development. It has taken up a great deal of my attention.”
Colonel Brockville puffed out his chest and opened the lower button of his uniform. “Come now, Strachan. Don’t be coy. I’ve heard you’re in thick with Arthur Hamilton and our poor Mrs. Clara Hamilton has been whisked away to a sanatorium in Berkshire. Tell us all about it, man.” The colonel wheezed into his napkin. “Mrs. Brockville has been on tenterhooks all evening waiting for you to bring it up. Do not keep us in suspense.”
He shot an uneasy glance at Trudy to register her reaction to this news. Brockville was like a bull in a china shop these days with his bold questions. The old man had taken a shine to Clara and he seemed inordinately concerned with her welfare much to Strachan’s irritation.
“My part is very small. I assisted Arthur Hamilton with a financial embarrassment and there is little else to it. However, my offer to help was misconstrued by Clara. She flew into a rage and had to be restrained. Arthur was given no choice but to send her away for treatment. I can testify that his fears were legitimate. Clara was completely irrational.”
“Oh my heavens!” Mrs. Brockville exclaimed. “What could have brought on her collapse? Mrs. Hamilton was perfectly calm and reasonable in our company, wasn’t she, Miss Delisle? Didn’t you think so? I was exceedingly charmed by the young lady.”
Trudy examined Strachan with a cool eye. “Mrs. Hamilton was experiencing some marital troubles but her spirits and mind seemed sound. There is obviously more to her story than she let on. Mr. Branson Hamilton’s outburst at the Ball was rather over the top. You were at the centre of that storm, Strachan. What happened between them?”
Strachan seized the chance to deflect Trudy’s curiosity. “That is how it began—the cause of Clara Hamilton’s collapse. She was forced to admit to her father that Branson Hamilton was not her husband after all. The wedding was a sham. Branson was in a fury about it; the marriage ruse was vital to his gaining control of Hamilton Trading. Fortunately, the loan I made to Arthur Hamilton has cut the villain off at the knees.”
“My, you’ve taken an extraordinary interest in Clara Hamilton’s affairs!” Trudy’s voice sparkled. “I’m just having trouble believing a word of it! Do you, Mrs. Brockville?”
“Oh, I quite agree with you, Miss Delisle. It is impossible!” Mrs. Brockville had set her fork down, so flabbergasted was she by Strachan’s announcement. “I cannot credit it. Not married? But they were living together under the same roof! What does her mother have to say about it?”
“Portia Hamilton keeps to her room. She has all but abdicated her responsibilities to her husband.”
Mrs. Brockville turned on her husband. “Colonel, you must speak to Mr. Branson Hamilton without delay. Get him to see the error he has made. I am confident he will do the right thing once the danger to Miss Clara is made clear.”
The colonel flung his napkin down. “Well, of course, my dear! Were it not for the fact that the bride-to-be is in an insane asylum, I should be delighted to instruct young Hamilton.”
“He would not listen in any case!” Strachan cried and then tried to smile to cover his frustration. “Branson is pursuing a plan of revenge against the entire Hamilton family. He is as proud as Lucifer and twice as deadly. If it were not for my intervention, Arthur Hamilton would lose his company tomorrow, and quite possibly his liberty. Branson Hamilton does not care about Clara. She was a pawn.”
Mrs. Brockville shook her head firmly. “Perhaps that is what he wanted Clara to believe and you too, Captain. But I do not believe it. That man is in love with Clara Hamilton.”
“Give it up, my boy,” laughed the colonel. “My wife is a hopeless romantic. You will not persuade her.”
As Colonel and Mrs. Brockville resumed eating, Trudy Delisle leaned across the table to have a quiet word with her fiancée. “When this is over, darling, I shall expect you to tell me what it was about your loan of money that caused Miss Hamilton’s collapse. I am not a fool. Do not think you can treat me as one.”
Strachan nodded and tried to appear unconcerned. The shareholders’ meeting was tomorrow and immediately after, he intended to ride to Gateshead Asylum to rescue Clara. Once she was in his power, there was little anyone could do to prevent him from taking her to bed.
§
BRANSON FOUND a tavern that was still open and inquired after lodgings for the night. The landlady led him down a narrow hall to a plain room furnished with a bed and nightstand. Gladiator was stabled at the smithy’s and Branson was too exhausted to eat. He kicked off his boots and flopped down on the mattress.
He had sent Harkness with the carriage back to London after the horses were watered and rested; a hired boy was sent to fetch Gladiator from Windemere Hall for the journey to Berkshire. A single rider could make better time and even with these measures he was forced to find lodgings when it became too dark to see the road.
The Parish Records book was in his leather satchel. Branson withdrew the heavy volume and carefully turned the pages to the year 1860. He found the correct month and running his finger down the column, Branson located their names.
Grace Leeds and Branson Reilly married on this day in Windemere Chapel. Vicar Merrick presiding. Piers Leeds was down as their witness.
Branson stared at the entry dully recalling the idealistic young man he used to be. That young man had stood at the altar with a girl he thought he loved and made a vow. A vow that had torn him up inside, destroyed his conscience, his hope, and his joy in living.
Branson swore aloud to the God he no longer trusted. He had been trapped in youth by a corrupt society and held prisoner in adulthood by a corrupt love. The phantasm of Grace Leeds would not release him. Their marriage was a bitter gall at the back of his throat that he had tasted every morning for seven years.
Until Clara.
That introduction was the real cruelty. To show him what his life might have been but for a cursed twist of fate, and then demand that he turn the very one who made him happy against him! It was like cutting a vein. If he had any sense of self-preservation, he would leave her in Gateshead. Turn around and ride back to Windemere where he belonged.
Did he love Clara Hamilton?
Branson shoved the records book back in the satchel, wishing he could shove the question away just as easily.
He did not know if he loved Clara. He didn’t know what real love felt like. He thought he was in love once and it proved to be the greatest mistake he’d ever made. Why would allowing himself to love his cousin be any different?
Branson wished he had not introduced the question to his mind because he was unable to stop the progress of his brain from seeking the answer. He felt whole with Clara. Complete. And the oddity of it was that up until meeting her, Branson did not know he was missing something. He had everything a man could want—money, women, power, physical strength—one stammering mouse of a cousin could not supply him with much.
Or so he believed.
How did it happen? When? She filled the empty spaces of his being with one smile. The scent of her skin was like dew, moistening the cracks in his parched soul. Clara’s touch, her kiss, her voice seemed to give flesh to his bones and—and—he needed her.
“I cannot live without her,” he realized aloud.
The shadows in his tiny room did not reply but he had the answer to his que
stion. He knew what he had to do. After he rescued Clara from Gateshead, regardless of what happened at the shareholders’ meeting tomorrow, Branson would never see his cousin again.
He loved her too much to trap her the way he had been trapped.
§
CLARA SHIVERED violently, her teeth clattered together in her head like rain on a roof. It was the effect of the ice bath wearing off; after one was frozen to the core, shivering indicated a return to normal body temperature. She was too cold to feel anger or affront; too cold to feel anything at all. Her body and mind was hard at work on survival.
They had returned her to her cell, swaddled in the straightjacket and this time, she did not object. Her mind was dull, her limbs had lost strength. Matron had cut her hair to above her shoulders to prevent it from becoming caught in the buckles and restraints. Clara had felt nothing as lock after lock of her hair fell to the tiled floor.
She curled into a ball on the cot. Her feet were cold. Matron said the orderly would bring her a blanket when she showed she could behave herself. Clara had no desire to fight them anymore. There seemed little point for she was never getting out of this place.
Night wore on but sleep would not come. It was an odd method of therapy, but the ice bath had settled her nerves—or simply numbed them out of existence. Laura Mayhew’s ideas about Branson and his wife, Grace Leeds, gave Clara plenty to think about and she could ponder her cousin’s actions without feeling utterly destroyed in the process.
Was Grace Leeds still alive? If she was, then Branson was restrained by law from marrying Clara and it was possible he could not allow himself to love her. If Grace was dead, then Branson was free and his reason for refusing to wed Clara was that he was still in love with his wife.
Clara’s eyes closed. She was weary of it all. Her physical discomfort cancelled out all mental and emotional strain. She had promised she would not give up but there seemed little reason to hold on. Branson would not come. Married or not, he did not love her.
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