by M C Beaton
After what seemed an age, Mary came in again looking flushed and triumphant.
“Poor Miss Sinclair is quite overset,” she said. “I made her a hot posset and got her to lie down.”
“Leave us,” said Lord Charles quietly to Mrs. Chalmers. She hesitated, looking at her daughter. Lord Charles got to his feet and went and silently held open the door.
Mrs. Chalmers scurried past him, her head bowed.
“Now, Mary,” said Lord Chalmers, “I feel you encouraged that silly woman in her folly.”
“And rightly,” said Mary calmly, “as it turns out. You were about to make a cake of yourself over your ward.”
“Mary,” he said, “have you never thought I might stray from you through the longing to hold a woman in my arms?”
The triumphant look left Mary’s face and she took a step back from him. “There will be plenty of time for that after we are married,” she said.
He felt cold rage burning inside him. Mary would not even pretend to care for him, and Patricia had made a fool of him.
“Then you had better get used to me,” he said grimly.
He caught her to him and forced his mouth down on hers. When he finally released her cold lips, she was trembling and shaken and staring at him as if he had just raped her.
Lord Charles gave a harsh laugh at the mixture of disgust and fright on her face. “That was only a beginning,” he said. “Only think, dear Mary, of the pleasures of the marriage bed.”
“You have spoiled everything,” said Mary after she had scrubbed her mouth with her handkerchief. “I thought we would go on as we were—you and I and Mama. We were so comfortable before that Patricia creature arrived.”
“And I thought Mrs. Chalmers was always present because you asked her to be there! Tell me, Mary, did you expect to remain a virgin even after our marriage?”
She simply stood looking at him, her face working.
“And to think I was worried about your feelings,” he said with deep disgust. “Madam, will you send the notice of the termination of our engagement to the newspapers, or will I?”
“I will,” said Mary. “You are a beast.”
Lord Charles left without looking back. He was in a murderous mood and was afraid that if he returned home immediately he would do something to Miss Patricia Patterson that he would regret for the rest of his life. He took himself off to his club to clear his head. But he started to drink to calm himself down and the more he drank, the more bitter and furious he became.
Patricia had been unable to sleep for excitement. She longed to share her happiness with someone but felt she had no right to until matters with Mary were resolved. She kept running to her bedroom window every time she heard carriage wheels, hoping to see Lord Charles return, only to sit down again, disappointed.
At last she prepared for bed, and, sitting down at the dressing table, began to brush out her hair, remembering how odd and short it had been when she had first tried to wear it à la Brutus.
She heard the rumble of wheels on the cobbles below and ran to the window again.
Lord Charles was springing down from the box of his carriage, his face set and grim.
He strode into the house and a moment later Patricia heard him mounting the stairs.
She sat down again, her heart beating hard, longing to run to him.
Then she looked up in alarm as the door of her bedroom swung open.
Lord Charles leaned against the door jamb, looking at her, his green eyes blazing. His black hair was ruffled as if he had run his hands through it.
“Well, you slut,” he said. “What have you to say to this?”
He threw Margaret Munroe’s crumpled letter on the bed. Patricia picked it up. “This is addressed to me!” she said furiously. “Why did you open it?”
“I did not open it. But it is as well it was opened. Read it!”
Patricia read the opening paragraphs in dismay. A guilty blush rose to her cheeks.
“Aye, well you may blush,” he said savagely. “I thought you innocent. You! A trollop who at the tender age of sixteen shares a bed in a sleazy inn with a redcoat. But what a fine actress you are. You fooled me with your act of dewy innocence.” He tore off his jacket as he spoke and threw it in a corner.
“What on earth do you think you are doing?” demanded Patricia.
“I am going to have a share of what you so freely gave to the British army.”
Patricia ran for the door.
He seized her arm and twisted it behind her back and looked down into her flushed and frightened face. Then he picked her up bodily and threw her on the bed.
She scrambled to the far side, but he jumped into the bed after her, caught her wriggling body, and jerked her into his arms. He rolled over until he was lying on top of her.
Patricia opened her mouth to scream, but he covered it with his own. Still kissing her savagely, he moved his body to her side and ripped her nightgown open from throat to hem. He then rolled on top of her again, the leather of his breeches cold against her thighs and his waistcoat buttons digging into her flesh. Panting and wriggling, Patricia fought her hardest to get free. Part of her frightened mind wondered whether she was really the trollop he thought her. For though he smelled abominably of brandy, though he was out to rape her, her treacherous body was beginning to respond to him despite her will.
He sensed her response and felt the shiver that ran through her body when his hand touched her breast and his kisses became more gentle and more searching.
“Not like this,” he whispered, raising his head at last. “I am going to remove these clothes. You will not run away?”
Patricia shook her head dumbly, her eyes glinting with tears.
He quickly took off the rest of his clothes and then pressed her close against his naked body. He gently kissed her eyes and her nose and then her mouth again.
His mouth moved lower to her breast, and Patricia, overcome with a mixture of shame and passion and love, put her arms around him and said, “Oh, Charles, don’t be angry with me. I do love you so.”
He went very still.
Then he raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her, seeing her bruised mouth and the torn wreck of her muslin nightgown spread out on either side of her on the bed.
“Dear God,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh, dear God.” He swung his legs out of bed and quickly pulled on his breeches.
“Charles!” whispered Patricia, but he walked straight out of the room.
Patricia cried for a long time. Then she rose and bathed her face and put on a clean nightgown. Picking up his shirt from the floor, she carried it to bed with her, and, cradling her cheek against it, cried herself to sleep.
Lord Charles Gaunt arose early, suffering from an abominable headache and a heavy conscience. He bitterly regretted his conduct. He had forgotten Patricia’s youth. He thought ruefully that her pride must have been as savagely hurt when he arrived at Burnham House as his had hurt the evening before. He was sure she had said she loved him simply as a way to get through his madness, to bring him to his senses. Now he would have to marry her. If the servants had not known what was going on in Miss Patricia’s bedroom then it would be a miracle. And even the most faithful of servants would talk.
He summoned Mr. Johnson and told him to go and see Miss Sinclair and to find out whether she meant to remain with the Chalmers or whether she wished lodgings. He curtly outlined the reason for Miss Sinclair’s dismissal.
From the cold look on Mr. Johnson’s face, Lord Charles knew his secretary thought the punishment too severe and that only his rigid notions of etiquette were preventing him from saying so.
Lord Charles decided to go and talk to the Lucases. He felt he could not bear to see Patricia, just yet.
Worn out with crying and emotion, Patricia slept until nine. She was awakened by Miss Simpkin. The little governess was looking more cheerful than she had done since the evening at Vauxhall.
She chattered on about how
Mr. Johnson was ordering the servants to pack Miss Sinclair’s trunks. “She has been dismissed. I wonder why?”
Patricia realized that Miss Sinclair must have been the one who opened the letter and read it.
She pretended to listen to Miss Simpkin’s chatter, but her head felt strange and heavy. She, Patricia, had given Lord Charles a disgust of her from which he would never recover. She had taken that splendid present of love and thrown it away.
“Miss Simpkin,” she said at last, “I am feeling unwell. Please leave me.”
Miss Simpkin began to fuss. Could she bring dear Patricia a hot posset? Might she bathe her temples with cologne?
Patricia shook her head wearily. She went to her writing desk and opened the drawer and took out several guineas.
“Please go and buy yourself something pretty, Simpers,” she said.
“But I couldn’t,” bleated Miss Simpkin.
“Oh, yes you could,” said Patricia, giving her a gentle shove in the direction of the door. “Go to Gunter’s and eat all the melted ices you wish.”
After many more thanks and protests, Miss Simpkin left. She felt she deserved something. After all, she had come to terms with her conscience. The Trueburys could threaten her as much as they liked, but she would not do as they asked.
Patricia sat down wearily and stared at the room through the prism of her tears. She heard the street door slam and ran to the window, dashing the tears from her eyes.
Lord Charles was striding away across the square. If ever a man’s back looked angry, it was his, thought Patricia wretchedly.
All at once she longed to escape and began to wonder how she might achieve it. She received a generous allowance from Lord Charles, since her money did not become her own until her twenty-first birthday, but it was not enough to keep her at some inn or hotel for very long, since Lord Charles would stop paying her allowance into the bank as soon as he discovered her missing.
But the desire to escape was very great. Patricia decided to go downstairs and find Mr. Johnson and ask how long Lord Charles was expected to be away.
But as she entered the hall, the butler was just opening the door to Mr. Truebury, who pushed his way past as soon as he saw Patricia. He had seen Lord Charles leave and had come for one last desperate attempt to ingratiate himself with the heiress.
Patricia was about to order the butler to show Mr. Truebury the outside of the door, but a germ of an idea came into her brain.
“Mr. Truebury,” she said. “You are very early. We do not usually receive callers until three in the afternoon.”
“I know, dear lady, but I had to see you.”
“Come into the drawing room, Mr. Truebury,” said Patricia. She ushered him in and then closed the door in the butler’s shocked face. Any unmarried lady when entertaining a gentleman should always leave the door open.
Mr. Truebury suddenly felt nervous. Lord Charles had vowed to break his neck if he approached Miss Patterson again, which was why he had been lurking in the square in the hope of seeing Lord Charles leave. But what if he should return?
“I only called to beg you to consider my suit, Miss Patterson,” he said in a rush.
“I might consider your suit, Mr. Truebury,” said Patricia slowly, “if you could perform a small service for me.”
Hope rushed into Mr. Truebury’s heart as he saw all his duns melting away like the snow in spring.
“Anything,” he said fervently.
“I have had a certain falling out with my guardian and would like to get away by myself for a little. Do you know of any lady who might be glad of my company as a companion, say, for a few weeks?”
Money, or the hope of it, always made Mr. Truebury’s not normally strong brain work like lightning. “There is my mother,” he said, promptly resurrecting that poor lady from her grave. “She lives at our house in Richmond—a great barn of a place—and is cursed lonely. I could take you there.”
“I would be most grateful,” said Patricia. “But I must ask you to curb your attentions to me, Mr. Truebury, until I have quite made up my mind whether I want to marry or not.” She mentally added, “The way I feel now, I would rather die an old maid.”
Mr. Truebury thought rapidly. His father, Sir Egbert, was at Richmond and would see to it that Patricia was kept there under lock and key until she was forced to marry him.
“I have my carriage across the square,” he said hurriedly. “We could leave immediately.”
“That will suit me very well,” Patricia said, to his infinite relief.
“Wait here and I will fetch some clothes.”
“I would rather wait across the square,” he said, looking about him nervously as if expecting Lord Charles to leap out from under a table.
“Then go,” said Patricia, “but do not leave without me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, dear lady,” said Mr. Truebury, his hand on his heart. “Wouldn’t dream of it!”
Eight
The Lucases sat side by side on a sofa and looked sympathetically at their friend, Lord Charles Gaunt.
He had talked about the weather, about the state of the nation, and about the war, all in equal tones of gloom.
“Dear Charles,” said Mrs. Lucas at last. “What really is the matter? I have never known you to look so worried or to be so boring before.”
Lord Charles gave them a rueful smile. “The fact is, I am in a sad mess and I don’t know what to do about it.”
Mrs. Lucas got to her feet and poured him a glass of wine, and then said sympathetically, “You will feel so much better if you tell us all about it. We are very good listeners, are we not, Mr. Lucas? And sometimes if you talk out loud about what is bothering you, you often find the solution yourself.”
“It concerns Patricia,” said Lord Charles heavily.
“Ah, your pretty ward.”
“I wish to God I had never met her.”
“Dear me,” said Mrs. Lucas. “Well, you did, and you have, so you may as well begin at the beginning and tell us everything, or it is quite probable we will not know what you are talking about.”
So Lord Charles began to tell them of going to Burnham House to take up his duties as guardian, of Patricia’s disgraceful behavior with the soldier, of his discovery of her letter, and of his subsequent drunken near rape of her.
“And now I have broken off my engagement to Miss Chalmers,” ended Lord Charles, “and it seems as if I am honor-bound to marry my ward after my behavior.”
“What a perfectly splendid idea,” cried Mrs. Lucas, clapping her hands.
“I say, steady on,” mumbled George Lucas, looking nervously at Lord Charles’s set face.
“I don’t see what’s so splendid about getting married to a minx who only set out to make me fall in love with her.”
“She may have set out to do so,” said Mrs. Lucas, “but I do not believe that such a charming and pretty girl would go through with it. She was very, very young when you banished her to America, Charles. And you did go on like the wicked guardian. You know you did. You never forced lessons on those sisters of yours, or tried to fill up their minds with heavy facts to improve their behavior. I am sure she dreamed of revenge when she was in America but soon forgot about it when she saw you again. You are still in love with her, and that is a very rare and precious thing. And I will tell you another thing, I believe her to be in love with you. So there!”
“How on earth can she still love me after last night—if she ever did?”
“Of course she can. Love is not easily put off. Stop looking so gloomy, Charles. I shall put on my bonnet and go with you. She will listen to me.”
Lord Charles suddenly smiled. “No, you terrifying woman, I can do my own courting.”
He was walking away from their house when he saw Mrs. Grant with her daughters on the other side of the road. He was all at once anxious to make sure they would not broadcast any scandal about Patricia. He would call on Miss Sinclair later and make sure she had not said anything
to Mary out of spite.
Mrs. Grant was delighted to see him. She said they were staying with friends close by and invited him back with them to take tea. Lord Charles hated spending more time away from Patricia, but he realized he could hardly raise such a delicate subject in the middle of the pavement, and so he went with them.
After half an hour, he left with repeated assurances from all the Grants that that “silly little scandal” had been completely forgotten.
Still, he hesitated. The temptation to tie up all the loose ends was very strong. He did not want to face his now ex-fiancée so soon. But after a short deliberation, he set out for the Chalmers’ home. To his surprise, he met his secretary, who was just leaving.
“I have been arranging lodgings for Miss Sinclair,” said Mr. Johnson stiffly. “She is quite overset and very remorseful. She does not want to stay with the Chalmers because she feels they encouraged her to spy on Miss Patterson.”
“Still, I am desirous of seeing Miss Sinclair,” said Lord Charles. “My ward was involved in a minor scandal before she went to America and I do not wish Miss Sinclair to tell anyone about it.”
“She would not. You have my word on it,” said Mr. Johnson, coloring up.
“Indeed? And what makes you so sure?”
“Because I believe Miss Sinclair may shortly do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
“This is a surprise. Are you sure of your choice?”
“Very sure… with your permission, my lord, or without it.”
“Then I shall rely on you to see she keeps silent.”
After he had left Mr. Johnson, Lord Charles hurried off in the direction of Cavendish Square.
He knew now that he loved Patricia as much as he had done when he had spoken to her at Lady Blessington’s. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss all the hurt and fright and worry from her face.
The first face that he saw on entering his home was full of hurt and fright and worry. But it was the face of Miss Simpkin.
“Patricia… gone,” she sobbed. “All m-my f-fault.”
He felt fear clutch at his heart.
“What is all this?” he demanded sharply. “Speak!”