Undoing One's Enemy

by Camille Oster

  He was not going to be pliable any longer, nor was he going to be used for a fool either. He should just throw her out and be done with her, forbid her entrance to his house ever again. There was just the matter of the old woman, the utterly defenceless creature, but she was her responsibility, not his. It was her absolute incapability of taking responsibility that was the cause of all these problems.

  As much as he hated it, he was to some degree accountable for the girl’s treatment, particularly in the eyes of the men sitting around him now. The presumption of his involvement with her exceeded the truth, but the assumptions mattered more than the fact. If he threw her out brutally, as he wanted to—along with the aunt—it would be known and he would be judged on those actions. Gentlemen did not engage in dramatics with their mistresses, these things were handled quietly and discreetly. He would have to live with those actions as well.

  He sorely wished he could just hand her over to Lord Hariston and be done with it, but she was not a reasonable creature and she would not co-operate. She was a child with some ridiculous notion that she was going to find a husband; amongst starving artists too. He chuckled bitterly.

  And she had used him. It stung acrimoniously that she’d taking from him as a man and then rejected him. No woman had ever used him. They traded themselves for financial gain, it was an upright transaction. They didn’t use him as a wash cloth to be thrown away.

  He knew in his bones it hadn’t been false, what she’d given in bed—it had been true and genuine. What kind of woman did so for a purpose other than she desired it? Intimacy, she had said; she’d wanted intimacy with no commitment. Women did not give intimacy with no commitment, it was not done—they gave pretence of it.

  He could not escape these thoughts—they plagued him. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to hurt her, as she had hurt him, and for the fact that it was never supposed to happen in the first place. This revenge of his had turned into a twisted thing, which had come back to bite him. Or maybe she had just bitten back. He refused to be bested by her. He just wasn’t sure where to go from here, but they would go somewhere. He needed time to think.

  He knew he had leverage over her—her aunt. He wasn’t sure how to use it or what outcome he sought, but he would have his way once he decided what it was. Lord Hariston and his interest in her presented interesting options. His acquaintance was the absolute contrary to what she wanted with her starving artists, a fate she distinctly detested. Maybe that was the way forward.

  Amelia’s nerves had been jittery all day; the tension in her was never ending. He had done nothing. She had stayed out of his way and he had not sought her out. He did seem to prolong the anticipation when he wanted to punish her. She struggled to leave her nails be.

  He wasn’t here at the moment, he’d gone out. She had heard his movements then spied him mount his horse outside. She’d watched him ride down the street, his form straight and unyielding. His face gave nothing away; it rarely did, except when he was annoyed. Cold and arrogant just like the day she’d met him. Like this, nothing correlated with the gentleness she knew was in him, or the intensity that was so compelling, when he gave of himself.

  While she regretted some of the things she’d done and how she had dealt with him, she just couldn’t quite bring herself to regret laying with him. They were memories that were etched into her mind. He wasn’t right for her, the extremes of his personality were too great, the coldness and warmness too far apart—not to mention that their values were polar opposite. Harmony could never exist between them.

  “Miss,” she heard an uncertain voice behind her. It was Abigail and Amelia could tell by her face that there was something wrong. “Come.”

  Amelia followed after Abigail’s fast pace. Something was wrong. “Aunt?”

  Edna was lying on the bed, she hadn’t dressed yet. She was having trouble breathing. “Call the doctor,” Amelia ordered and Abigail disappeared out of the room. “Aunt?” she repeated. Edna didn’t seem to see her; she was looking out at something in the window, at a bird.

  “I’m here,” Amelia said. “It will be fine.” She had no certainty to what she was saying; she just wanted to sooth her aunt. She took her hand and it was cold. Edna kept staring out of the window, struggling to breath. Amelia prayed the doctor would get there quickly. The room was deathly quiet except for Edna’s breathing.

  “George?” Edna said in a croaking voice.

  “He’s not here. He is on his way.” It was a straight lie, but it made her aunt relax and smile. The seconds stretched out and still the doctor had not come. And then she stopped.

  “Aunt?” Amelia said with desperation. She patted her aunt’s hand and then her cheek, but she wouldn’t revive. She was distracted with the noise of someone running up the stairs. The doctor was here, he firmly guided her out of the way to examine Edna. Amelia just stood back from the bed and watched.

  “She’s passed, I’m afraid.”

  “We have to do something, we have to get her back,” Amelia said beseechingly.

  “She is at peace now,” the man with wavy yellow hair said and started packing away his instruments. He’d been her aunt’s doctor for a few months, so he was well aware of her condition. “It is not a surprise,” he said and turned to Amelia. “It was her time. She has been worsening lately.”

  Amelia was trying to understand—her aunt was gone. How could this happen? The doctor was talking but she couldn’t comprehend anything he was saying. She could only see his lips moving.

  He was asking her something. She tried to get her mind to work. She looked at his lips and tried to get the sounds to correlate. “Do you want me to give you something for your nerves?”

  Amelia shook her head and returned her gaze to her aunt.

  “You should have a cup of tea,” he said. “It will help steady you. You’ve had a shock. I know it’s much to take in, but this is for the best, she was suffering greatly.”

  Amelia nodded. It was for the best, she repeated herself—it just didn’t seem it. It felt like it wasn’t supposed to happen. It felt completely wrong.

  “I must go now,” the doctor said. “I must attend another patient. My deepest condolences. Please be glad it happened quickly, it was better for her that way.”

  Amelia nodded again. The doctor was leaving. She wanted to stop him, she felt like he was Edna’s only chance and he was walking away. She wanted to say something, but she couldn’t get her mouth to formulate the words.

  Someone was pushing her. She looked around and Abigail was pushing her out of the room.

  “Tea is ready,” Abigail said. “In the sitting room.”

  Amelia just let Abigail lead her. She trusted Abigail. Then she was sitting in the plush red chair that she usually sat in. The one next to her, where her aunt usually sat, was empty. She could see the steam rising from the teapot, but she had no desire for tea. She just sat there. The house was deathly still. There were no sounds other than a clock, actually there were two—she could hear a more distant one as well. She couldn’t think which clock was making the sound. Then there was the sound of the world outside, moving on like nothing had happened.

  It was well into the afternoon when he got back. He’d been to survey the results of an investment, a speech by a group of men who were intending on expanding the port facilities out to the west for trade with continental Europe as the congestion in London was causing delays and penalties. It was an interesting project and he had been involved for a while, supporting the project financially. As always, there were barriers and detractors. There was always someone whose fortunes depended on the old ways, for whom the new project was devastating. They tended to be powerful too, making a fuss with everyone that would listen. This instance was no different.

  Success required ruthlessness. It was just the way of the world. Lessons he had learnt in the West Indies after his family’s quick and spectacular demise. It had taken his some time to get to grips with it, but eventually he had learnt its ways.
In the beginning people took advantage of him whenever he managed to accumulate any money at all. He quickly learnt what to watch out for.

  Gentlemen could not sit on their laurels, many didn’t understand this and their wealth dwindled or was squandered. Wealth needed to be maintained and grown. The true worth of a gentleman in society is based on his prowess in making wealth, not spending it—anyone could spend. Looking poor was unacceptable, but beyond an assurance of a certain level of quality, the consideration of material trappings was mute—at least to the people who counted.

  It was time to return home, time to deal with the vagabond who had burrowed her way into his house and his life. It was time for her departure. He would let her offer what she wanted to continue his support of the aunt. The one thing he decided was that it would not involve him—he was done with her. That would make it a little trickier for her, but he would see how creative she was in bargaining.

  He felt almost a sense of anticipation when he got home, but there was an odd atmosphere to the house. He couldn’t place it. It was quiet, but it was always quiet. Something was off.

  “Good afternoon, my Lord,” Granson said barely above a whisper. He was about to challenge the man when he continued, “A sad day, I fear. Miss Hessworth passed away.”

  For an instant he thought Amelia Hessworth had died and he got a momentous adrenalin rush, but logic overruled almost immediately. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said. Truly he wasn’t sorry, the woman had looked wretched the last time he’d seen her. Her expiry was a foregone conclusion. Nevertheless, it was not a pleasant situation, irrespective of how foretold it was.

  “Where is she?” he inquired.

  “Still in her room, the maids have dressed her.” Richard nodded as he absorbed the information.

  “And the other?”

  “In the sitting room, my Lord.”

  He went upstairs and checked in the elder woman’s room. She was lying on the bed in a dark grey dress with her hands lain neatly on her stomach. She looked very different. The absence of life was noticeable.

  He closed the door quietly as he stepped out of the room, then walked down to the sitting room where Amelia was standing by the window in a light blue dress.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. She hadn’t been expecting it because it made her jump. She hadn’t noticed him arrive. She turned to him then back to the window. “Have you called anyone?”

  “Who is there to call?” she said, her voice was empty.

  “The undertaker,” he said gently. Her eyebrows furrowed.

  “I...” she started, “Mr. Jamieson did that, but he’s not here now.”

  “Was he here?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Jamieson?” He knew she was referring to Edward Hessworth’s solicitor.

  “No, before, when father…” She couldn’t finish the sentence because she broke down in big sobs.

  “Don’t cry,” he said. He hated women crying. It drove something deep in him, an impulse to fix the fault, but he couldn’t fix this.

  “I’m all alone now,” she said through her hands which covered her face. “I’m all alone.”

  His impulse was to deny it, but it was true. He found it impossible to walk away while she was in such distress. “Hush,” he said and walked over to her. Her back was rounded with her arms folded in tightly to her chest. He stroked her along the top of her shoulder, in an attempt to do something to sooth her.

  “She was fine, I saw her this morning, she was fine, and then she just went,” Amelia started rambling. He turned her around and she let him, stepping into his arms and embraced him. It may not have been the right thing to do because she only cried harder. He couldn’t do anything but try to comfort her, which meant a shoulder to cry on. He stroked her hair gently as she cried. He could feel the wetness of her tears soaking through his jacket.

  Then she pulled away. “I need to call someone,” she said trying to wipe her tears away; there was a look close to horror in her eyes. “I can’t remember the people that came, I can’t remember their names. I wasn’t listening—I should have been listening.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said reassuringly. “I’ll get the right people, don’t worry.”

  “I need my mourning dresses. They’re not in the wardrobe, where have they gone?” she asked with anguish.

  “I’ll have Granson find them. Have you eaten?” She looked at him like he’d asked her a difficult question, one she didn’t have an answer for. He realized that she was not in complete command of herself or her thoughts. Her shock was too fresh to allow her to consider practicalities. “You need to eat; it will make you feel better.” He should ask Granson if she had eaten anything, he wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of her.

  “I’m not hungry,” she stated absently. She had returned to hugging herself and making for a pitiful sight. Her eyes were red and swollen, transfixed somewhere on the street below. He must have ridden up right in front of her earlier and she hadn’t noticed, else his arrival wouldn’t have been such a surprise.

  “I’ll have Granson bring something up,” he said. She only nodded and returned to the window.

  “I shouldn’t be wearing this,” she said looking down at her dress. “This is wrong. It’s disrespectful.”

  He sought out Granson downstairs, giving him a list of instructions. Granson and the Cook both appear as they sometimes did when needed.

  “Send for an undertaker,” he told Granson. “Have them collect Miss Hessworth and prepare her for burial. Miss Amelia needs to eat something and she apparently has mourning wear somewhere.”

  “I’ll make a ginger cake,” Cook said and he was about to argue with the ridiculousness of the suggestion. “Ginger is good for shock.”—then again what did he know? “I’ll take up some sandwiches; I’ll prepare some for you as well.”

  “I believe Miss Amelia has some clothes that were stored in the attic, I will have them brought down and prepared,” Granson confirmed.

  His staff dispersed leaving the house quiet again. He wanted to leave the heavy atmosphere but he wouldn’t. Females in mourning were prone to irrational behavior and he didn’t feel comfortable leaving Amelia alone. He also didn’t want to be intimately privy to her grief, but what else could he do? He decided that he could assure that she ate something.

  He returned to the sitting room and took a seat from where he watched Amelia standing by the windows slightly stepping from one foot to the other. He was supposed to attend a dinner this evening, but he would have to send his apologies, even though it was a toss-up with regards to where he would prefer to be at the moment. He could not leave her for the next few days. For all the things he had become, there were some duties he could not shirk.

  A maid came with a tray of sandwiches before long. He surveyed the tea service and noted it was completely untouched and cold. He told the maid to bring a new pot.

  “Sit down and eat,” he said firmly. She didn’t respond at first, but after a moment she seemed to tentatively relent. She moved into her seat, but looked very uncomfortable. “A sandwich—roast beef if I’m not mistaken.” She looked at it like it was something alien, then took a small sandwich and nibbled on the side of it.

  The fresh tea pot arrived and was left on the service. Amelia made no move for it, so he poured a cup for her and himself. “Drink, it will make you feel better.”

  He placed the cup and saucer in her hand, and she slowly took a sip. “Is someone coming?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will they be long?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “I don’t know if I can…”

  “I’ll take care of it, you should rest,” he said. She nodded then abruptly stood up.

  “I should rest,” she said and walked to her room, closing the door behind her.

  The next day was dreary. The weather seemed to match the occasion. The undertaker had come in the evening and he had paid them for expedient service. He was pleased th
at they were well trained and they removed the body quickly, quietly and efficiently.

  Amelia had stayed in her room, he didn’t know if she was unaware or just too upset to see it. Likely she has slept. High emotions would give way to exhaustion. At least she had eaten this morning, or so he’d been informed once her breakfast tray had been collected.

  He could hear her crying. Why were there no walls that could keep out the sound of a woman weeping? It made him feel useless and agitated, but there was nothing he could do. There was still some planning to do for when the body had been prepared. It had to go somewhere, be buried somewhere. There were also the legal matters to take care of—not that he expected that there would be much as Miss Edna Hessworth’s estate would likely be modest.

  He also answered no to a note that arrived for Amelia asking for her company to a philharmonic concert by some man he had never heard of. He had perhaps been out of bounds to open her mail, but under the circumstances, he felt that it was best that he took over such tasks. The note annoyed him and he wasn’t proud of the fact that she would never see it, but he had tossed it in the fire nonetheless.

  He sent a note to Mr. Jamieson, the solicitor to the Hessworth family, although his retainer had lapsed as the Hessworth estate disintegrated. Richard would likely have to provide the funds for the solicitor’s services. He fully expected that he would have to pay for the funeral as well. It was not the time to squabble over money. He wanted the unpleasant business done with and he would pay for a fast resolution.

  What he could not do was decide where the woman would be buried, that had to be dictated by family. The undertaker would soon be inquiring what to do with the body. He went upstairs to consult the grieving girl, knocking gently on the door.

  “Go away.” He heard from inside.

  “There are things we need to discuss,” he said through the door. There was no reply so he opened it. She was sitting in her white nightgown in the chair facing her dresser and mirror. She turned sideways to glance at him. Her eyes were red and glassy, her hair completely free. She looked a little ethereal. Her bare feet rested upon a bar across the stool legs.