“The money, of course, was a secondary consideration.”
“It was not the only consideration, is the point I mean to make. But the advantages I imagined in providing for the rest have so far been elusive. You are not indifferent to my nephew; I don’t know why you should pretend you are.”
“Did you not consider, by the way you forced my hand, that my indignation might be aroused to such a degree that I would find it impossible to resign myself to the circumstances in which I was so summarily placed?”
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking yourself beyond the call of duty simply because you do not approve of the manner in which the particulars of the arrangement were carried out. You agreed. You may not have had much choice, but you agreed. And even if you had not, the fact is you are married now, and so are responsible for the obligations that accompany it. It’s too late to play the wide-eyed maiden.”
“How dare you talk to me this way!” she said, standing.
“Sit down! Don’t pretend to be all prim and proper with me. I know where you came from, remember.”
Despite his command, she remained standing, immovable, staring coldly, not at the man but at the cruelty that emanated from his very being, and which was magnified by the undisturbed smile he continued to wear. It was not one of pleasure, nor of mirth; simply a smile—as cold and unfeeling a gesture as could be made and still be called by that description.
“Didn’t he tell you what his purpose was in going?” he asked her now.
“No,” she answered boldly.
“Of course he wouldn’t. But I’m sure you can guess easily enough.”
She couldn’t. At least she didn’t dare do it.
“Obviously he’s gone to get elsewhere what you won’t give him. He can hardly be blamed now, can he?”
Imogen sank back down into her chair.
“You object, of course,” he returned, “though I’m not sure you have a right.”
“I think I have every right, considering what dishonour such conduct would cost us.”
“It’s a bit late to think of that now. You sold yourself before we bought you and that at second hand. The dishonour’s been done already, and it’s no good to throw it off on your husband, especially when you’ve done nothing to claim his loyalty for yourself.”
So he did know, likely always had known, in what way she had served her uncle. She had escaped that hell only to find herself standing face to face with someone not entirely unlike the man who had so cruelly used her. But had Sir Edmund shared with his nephew what he had come to learn about her shameful history? Impossible! He, in his cruelly diplomatic way, would leave that for her to do.
“I admit it was wrong of me to be so obliging in his whims and fancies,” he went on. “I see, too late, that it has only encouraged his sense of entitlement. Wishes too easily fulfilled can never be properly appreciated. And now, unhappy with what he has already, not man enough to demand what law and nature have granted him by right, he’s off to Town to see what else he might secure for himself.”
With the groan of wood sliding across wood, Sir Edmund pushed his chair from the table and stood. “It’s a pity you regret your present circumstances so much. I rather hoped you’d be more grateful. But your past can be resurrected, you know. Or buried for good. The choice is yours.” He turned then and left the dining room, the doors banging closed behind him.
* * *
Sir Edmund entered his private chamber, now to double as his study, and found, as he’d expected to do, Wyndham waiting for him.
“You had a pleasant meal, I trust?” Wyndham asked with his usual simpering smile. He was so smug in his obsequiousness that it was all Sir Edmund could to resist striking him. The man needed a sound thrashing. That it hadn’t been accomplished already was perhaps a gross neglect of familial justice.
“You’ve come for the usual, I suppose,” Sir Edmund asked him.
“The bills must be paid somehow.”
“If you’d get off your lazy—”
“As Hamilton has done, you mean?” Wyndham asked with a sanctimonious laugh.
“Never mind what Archer has done. I approve. That’s all you need to know.”
“But why? You would never have done for Bess.”
“That whore? Your whore?” It was Sir Edmund’s turn to laugh. “You’re right there. Mrs. Hamilton has qualities that recommend her better than most, believe it or not. And I’ll trust you to leave it at that.”
“Waiting for some uncle to die, are you, so she, and subsequently you, can inherit?”
Sir Edmund offered only a warning look in response to this. Wyndham would work it out eventually. Until then he was far better left in the dark.
“I believe we were talking of your affairs,” Sir Edmund said. “Speaking of which, I have a request to make of your charming lady friend.”
“Do you now?”
“A demand, rather. I can trust you to deliver it?” He tossed a leather pouch onto the desk. The coins clinked within it as it came to rest before Wyndham.
Wyndham picked it up and opened it, then looked up in surprise.
“What’s this?”
“A bribe, I believe it’s called. And I expect you to see that it works.”
“Your demands?” Wyndham asked, pocketing the money. He sat back in his chair and crossed one knee over the other.
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A chill came over her.
Chapter forty-one
ETTY MASON TURNED from the work table as the door of her cottage opened.
“You here?” she said, putting down the knife and a rather spindly carrot.
“Aren’t you pleased to see me, Bess?”
Yes, of course she was, and he knew it. That was the problem. He had always been too fine for her. Too hard and too fine. She had set her hopes very high indeed at one time. Fool, she was. Now she was here, always to be at his beck and call, never to have the privilege of calling upon his protection. Only his mercy, when it was available to her.
Miles Wyndham entered and laid the purse down.
“What is this?” she asked him warily.
“You know what it is.”
She wiped her wet hands on her apron and took another passing glance at the pouch before going back to her work of preparing the evening’s meal.
“Are you going to count it?”
Unheeding, she continued with what she was doing. He waited. When the last of the carrots had been chopped, she gathered them into the same bowl in which had earlier been placed potatoes and cabbage. She threw the lot in with the simmering cut of beef, mercifully provided for her through the recent donation of another.
Finished now with her cutting and preparing, she wiped her hands once more and took up the purse. Leaning against the work table, she weighed it in her hand. It was far lighter than the size suggested.
“Just open it,” he said.
She tipped the pouch into her hand and poured out the loose coins. Indeed, they were few.
“Is this a joke?”
“Open it, I said.”
Drawing the strings loose, she opened it wider and found, neatly folded inside, a number of bills.
“What is this?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“What is this, Miles?” she asked, afraid to make too much of this sudden show of generosity. “Why is there so much?” And then suddenly it seemed obvious. “You are buying me off. It’s come to that at last, has it?”
“That’s enough, Bess. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I? I’m perfectly aware of Sir Edmund’s hopes for you. I’ve heard them often enough, after all”
“I said that’s enough.”
“Then what is this? Tell me.”
Miles sat down.
“This isn’t from her? It came from Sir Edmund, not from her?”
This won from Miles a curious look.
“I’ve seen her, you know. Mrs. Hamilton. I’ve spoken with her.”
The look suddenly became warning.
“The night of Charlie’s accident. I went there.”
“You went to the Abbey? Do you know what risks you took, Bess? If you had been found there...”
“I didn’t care. I don’t care. I needed to see him. But I spoke with her. She promised to help him. To help us. And to give us money if we need it. She’s given us some already—and has promised more besides.”
“Why would she concern herself with Charlie? He’s hardly her responsibility.”
“But she thinks he is. Or might be. She believes he’s Mr. Hamilton’s.”
“What?”
“It’s true. She asked me.”
“And what did you tell her?” he asked as he stood to tower over her.
“I didn’t tell her anything to the point. If she wants to help him, why shouldn’t I let her?”
He seemed to consider this, and relaxed a little, though he remained standing.
“So then. If this is not from her, and it’s not to buy me off, then what is it for? There must be a reason. What is it?”
“There is a reason for it,” he said at last. Whether it’s Sir Edmund’s doing or Mrs. Hamilton’s, I don’t know….” His gaze met hers. “Charlie’s to be sent to school.”
Bess dropped the bag and the coins with it. This was good news. Of course it was. And yet… “School? Which school? The one in Kennington, do you mean, or—”
“London,” he said, and then went on as if it were but a small thing to consider. “It’s a good school, and he’ll—”
“London?”
“They’ll prepare him for Eton or Harrow, and then—”
“I’ll not send him so far, Miles. I need him here with me.” Her hands had begun to shake, and so she placed them behind her and leaned against them. She’d not been well of late, but she could not let him see that.
“Sir Edmund is prepared to pay a not inconsiderable sum to have your boy—”
“Our boy, Miles.”
“I never said he was mine! How do I know he’s mine? He might be Hamilton’s after all, for all I know!”
“Miles Wyndham, you are the very cruellest man alive!”
“We’ve been through this before, Bess. I’ll not discuss it again. I told you I’d help you as far as I’m able, and that’s as much as I’ll commit to.”
Bess turned away from him. It was useless to argue with him. They’d had this same debate so many times it made her head ache to think on it.
“This is no small thing he’s willing to do,” Wyndham continued, returning to the former topic. “Charlie’s fortunate. You’re fortunate.”
“But why now? And why must Charlie go so far? You want him out of the way.”
“This isn’t my doing, Bess.”
“But you do not object. This is convenient for you as well.”
“I thought it’s what you’ve always wanted,” he said again. “Dash it all, Bess! Think what he might accomplish with a Cambridge education!”
“You don’t know Sir Edmund means to see him that far. You don’t know he isn’t simply shipping him off to get him out of his hair.”
“Not his alone, I think.”
“So that is the reason!”
“Now calm yourself, Bess. I don’t understand it any more than you do. Yes. It seems Charlie’s in the way. But if he’s being sent to school, and not just any school, Bess, but a very good one, then our hopes are not quite dashed.”
“Your hopes.”
He turned on her. “I’m sorry?”
“He uses Charlie as a lure to keep you obedient. And as a threat to keep Hamilton loyal. He always has done, and you know it. You won’t acknowledge him, but you’ll use him when it suits you. Where does that leave me?”
Wyndham released a breath of frustration.
“You say this is what Sir Edmund wants. Is it what you want? Is it?”
“What I want is of little consequence. Neither are your wishes, I’m afraid. He’s going and that’s that.”
“No.”
“Bess,” he said, that familiar warning thick in his voice.
“You won’t send my son away. And you can tell Sir Edmund I said so. If you won’t acknowledge him, then you have no claims upon him. Nor me.” With that, she kicked the money, still lying in its pouch on the floor, in Wyndham’s direction.
“You’re making a mistake, Bess,” he said, bending to pick it up.
“No, you’re making a mistake thinking you can bully me. If he is inconvenient to you, you ought to have thought of that before you—”
Miles turned to her, raising his hand as if to strike her. The door swung open then, and Wyndham turned towards it, lowering his hand at the same time.
“Good evening, my boy,” he said as Charlie entered, a scowl on his face.
“Mr. Wyndham,” Charlie answered dryly.
Bess rushed to meet him.
“Mr. Wyndham deserves our respect, Charlie,” she whispered, nervously straightening the boy’s clothes and combing his hair with her fingers. “Treat him kindly, will you?”
“Where’ve you been today, Charlie?” Wyndham asked him. “At the Abbey as usual?”
“No,” Bess answered for him. “He’s been helping me. I was without him nearly a week, you know. It’ll take me two to catch up.” She turned to Charlie. “Did you deliver the laundry to Mrs. Digby?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“And?”
“She said she’ll pay you next week.”
Bess stood, plainly disappointed, but then recovered. “Never mind,” she said, glancing at Wyndham, and the pouch he still held. “We’ll make do.”
“Wouldn’t you much rather be a gentleman, Charlie?” Wyndham asked him, “Rather than running about the countryside doing your mother’s errands?”
“I need him here, Miles.”
He ignored her. “How would you like to go to Cambridge like your uncle Hamilton?”
“Miles, stop.”
He didn’t listen, and Charlie answered honestly, though his manner was yet reserved. “I’d like that very much, Mr. Wyndham.”
“What if I told you that if you were very good, and did everything that was asked of you, that you might go there one day? Would you do it?”
“Stop it, Miles.”
Wyndham threw another warning look in her direction. It was quite menacing this time, and so she bit her tongue.
“Well, Charlie?”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
“When?” Bess dared to ask.
He answered, but with his eyes still on the boy, a victorious smirk on his deceptively handsome face. “Soon. Very soon, I think. In a week or two.”
“A week? No, Miles. Don’t ask this of me.”
“I’m not,” he said, turning to her at last. “It isn’t a request. He’s going to London and that’s an end of it. Until then, I’ll just hold onto this for you.” He tucked the purse in his pocket, and, putting on his hat, took his leave of them.
Bess returned to the simmering stew pot. With her back to Charlie, she could give way to the tears without raising suspicion. But her sobs caught in her throat and the cough she had been fighting to suppress during the whole of Wyndham’s visit tore through her, bending her double, rattling and ravaging through her lungs. From the pocket of her dress, she withdrew a small bottle. She removed the cork and took a sip…and then another. And sat down to await the effects. At last the coughing subsided and the soothing caress of the laudanum passed its hand over her frame.
Charlie crossed to the fire. From the pot he ladled the stew into bowls and set them upon the table, along with some bread and a spoon for them each.
“Thank you, Charlie,” Bess said, lifting her head from the hands in which it had been resting. “I’m better now. I promise.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Tell me, Charlie. Do you truly wish to go to school?”
“You need me here. Perhaps I can go later. When you are well again.”
>
She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “Yes, darling. When I’m well again.”
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Chapter forty-two
LAIRE MONTEGUE LIVED near Southampton, on the very edge of the New Forest, and it was here Archer found himself on the morning following his rather hasty departure from the Abbey. With the knocker in hand, he contemplated the door for a minute or two before at last concluding that the thing must be struck before the door would open to him. The butler granted him his silent permission to enter, and there Archer waited to be received.
“Well, what do you know?” came the voice as Claire’s grandmother found him looking lost and a little worse for wear.
“Mrs. Montegue, how are you?” he said, kissing her upon each of her pale and wrinkled cheeks.
“You’ve come for Claire, of course. She said you would.”
“Did she?”
“And where is your wife? I’m so looking forward to meeting her.”
“I’m afraid she was unable to travel with me.”
Mrs. Montegue’s brow lowered in disapproval. As with Claire, there was no use lying to this woman.
“Come,” she said. “There’s no need to stand here as if we didn’t know how to welcome a guest.”
Archer followed her into the nearest sitting room and, making himself comfortable, prepared to wait.
“You are well, I trust?” Mrs. Montegue asked him, placing herself beside the fire, where she stood, leaning lightly on a walking stick she did not appear to need.
“Tolerably, ma’am,” he answered. It was another lie. He was a wreck and he knew it. What was worse, it showed, and he knew that too.
“And how is my cousin these days? Sir Edmund is well?”
“Well enough, I suppose. I’ll tell him you asked.”
“Will he care?”
“Of course he’ll care.” It was another lie, as transparent as the last. In the silence that descended, in the fog filled confusion, he nearly forgot himself. He could not bear the silence, for it gave him time to think—and Mrs. Montegue time to study him. He’d always been a little afraid of her. Too wise, too perspicacious, she could reduce a man to a child with half a dozen words, and a child to tears with only a look.
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