Winter Garden

by Adele Ashworth

  She didn’t stop.

  “I will keep your secret if you will keep mine.”

  That got her. Desdemona slowed her pace until she came to a halt, although she didn’t turn around.

  Madeleine sauntered toward her once more, regarding the lady’s tight shoulders and properly rigid back, her perfectly coiled ringlets that hung from beneath her hat.

  Desdemona didn’t look at her, or speak, but stared straight ahead.

  Madeleine lowered her voice although it was unnecessary as they again stood side by side on the vacant road. “Baron Rothebury is likely to be arrested for smuggling stolen opium, and this could happen within days.”

  The lady’s composure weakened fractionally. Her gaze shifted briefly to Madeleine’s face, for only a second in time, then back to the village square.

  When no comment was forthcoming, Madeleine asked wryly, “Would that please you?”

  Desdemona swallowed and lifted a gloved hand to her belly, covering it gingerly. “How do you know this?” she whispered without looking at her.

  She shrugged minutely. “Tell me the truth about your pregnancy, and I will tell you the truth about Rothebury.”

  A gust of icy wind stirred up the loose snow on the ground in front of them, and Madeleine shielded her face with her muff, noticing at once how Desdemona did not.

  “You’ve never been in love, have you, Mrs. DuMais?”

  Madeleine had never been so surprised by a faintly spoken question, and she feared it showed in her immediate expression, though the woman probably didn’t notice because she still refused to look at her.

  “Have you, Desdemona?” she countered, feeling better to avoid her own confusing feelings altogether when they didn’t apply. “Are you in love with Rothebury?”

  Unexpectedly Desdemona smiled and turned her body to confront her at last, color returning to her cheeks. “I thought so, for a while,” she admitted candidly. “But in actuality I was naive and allowed myself to be seduced by a snake who took advantage of my innocence and left me carrying a child he would never acknowledge as his.”

  It wasn’t exactly a direct confession, but it told her the truth as she expected it. And because Madeleine had experienced the baron’s charm and seductive manner firsthand, she believed it of him. But what mattered now was that this information gave them power, if they could find a way to use it.

  “Would you like me to testify to the authorities about his illicit operation as I’ve seen it?”

  Madeleine blinked, incredulous, unsure if she’d heard correctly, or even if the woman knew exactly what she offered. She’d never expected it and frankly wasn’t sure how to respond.

  Desdemona guessed her surprise and sneered. “It’s why you’re here talking to me, isn’t it?”

  She composed herself to utter, “Would you be willing to do that?”

  The Englishwoman’s thin blond eyebrows rose with the deepening crease in her forehead. “And risk social ruin and family disgrace?”

  Madeleine’s heart sank. She had been so hoping, but, of course, a lady of quality would never purposely soil her reputation so blatantly. If Desdemona provided information to the authorities, even under total secrecy, word of her conduct would eventually filter through the village and blacken her and ultimately her family’s reputation forever. Irreversibly.

  Desdemona laughed bitterly, shaking her head so abruptly the ringlets framing her face bounced across her cheeks. In that instant she looked twelve years old, and Madeleine felt not only sorry for her, but also a sharp pang of resentment on her behalf.

  “I would be happy to help you, Mrs. DuMais. On one condition.”

  That statement nearly knocked her over. “What condition?”

  “Tell me who you are.”

  For the first time Madeleine hesitated in answer, quickly scanning their immediate surroundings. They were alone, for all practical purposes, and nobody could hear them speaking. Telling Desdemona an abridged account of her mission in England really wasn’t a concern. Her true misgiving was the very real possibility that she might in some way jeopardize Thomas’s identity because he lived here, at least for now. But she could probably get around that for the sake of putting a devious spider in prison for a long time to come. It was worth the attempt.

  She drew a long breath and faced Desdemona again, squarely. “You won’t mention this to anyone.” It was a shrewdly spoken statement, not a question.

  “I believe,” Desdemona reminded her articulately, “that you were the one who said we’d keep each other’s secrets.”

  “Quite right,” she agreed. Then, “I am a French native, brought to Winter Garden at your government’s request to learn what I could about an opium smuggling operation in this vicinity. I soon began to suspect the baron, and I think I’ve discovered how he’s doing it and why.” She paused, then whispered, “Now, will you tell me what you know?”

  Desdemona absorbed the information, her features growing taut with assessment. “Why you?” she pressed, nonplussed.

  Madeleine was afraid she would ask that. “I work for the British government abroad,” was all she said, hoping it would be enough.

  “As Mr. Blackwood does in England,” Desdemona remarked as the light began to dawn.

  “Yes.”

  The younger woman bit her bottom lip, head cocked, very nearly smiling now, and then she straightened and looked to the snow at the foot of her gown.

  “I only saw the opium once, wrapped inside two crates that he carried through the tunnel one night when he wasn’t expecting me,” she murmured. “I didn’t know what it was initially, but he told me in his usual arrogant manner when I challenged him. I’m sure he thought I was safe to confide in since I couldn’t very well reveal his operation without also announcing that I was on his property alone at night, or at least that I knew him far too intimately.” She laughed again, nervously. “He was so furious when I surprised him, entering the tunnel on my own, hoping to seduce him. Of course, he took advantage of me even then, knowing it was the last time we were going to be together. I was aware that I carried his baby, but I didn’t want to tell him until I had an assurance that he loved me and wanted to marry me. I’m from a good family, after all, and would make a respectable wife. He bedded me knowing he might get me with child. I naively assumed he would want me.”

  She raised her lashes, and this time her eyes were crystal clear and tear-filled. “He laughed at me when I confessed my love, Mrs. DuMais. I told him I loved him and wanted to marry him, but instead of being overjoyed at the prospect, or even just gentle with my feelings, he laughed at me and called me loose as he put his pants back on.”

  She hugged herself, her soft jaw tightening with supremely controlled rage as she boldly announced, “I never told him about the baby and I never will. He would only deny that it’s his, and I refuse to be humiliated again. The Baron Rothebury is no gentleman. He is a viper, and I will do whatever it takes to see that he rots in prison if I cannot see him burn in hell.”

  Madeleine fought the urge to reach out to her, to wrap her arms around the lady’s sagging shoulders in comfort. But decorum exhorted her to hold back. At least for now.

  “What will you do?” she carried on very gently.

  Desdemona knew she meant when the rumors began, when her family was socially disgraced after she divulged to the proper authorities her intimate involvement with a respectable baron in his home. In that instant, Madeleine pitied the woman.

  “Let me tell you about my husband, Mrs. DuMais,” Desdemona began in a clear, earnest voice. “He is an old family friend, someone I’ve been extremely close to for years. My mother never liked him because he is effeminate, preferring the pursuits of girls over boys’ as a child. I never cared, because he is a tender soul who always listened to my complaints without judging and caught my tears when they fell on his shoulder. He and I were so much alike as children, typically the naughty one in the family, the disappointing one, though for different reasons, neither
of us ever able to please our parents and live up to their expectations.” She inhaled deeply and raised her hands to her face, prayer position, speaking into her gloves. “I’m sure you’ll understand when I ask that you not repeat this.”

  “Of course,” Madeleine replied at once.

  “My husband is…” She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again. “My husband prefers the company of men. Do you understand?”

  Madeleine wondered if Desdemona expected her to be shocked, or perhaps disconcerted by this news. Instead of questioning it, she simply nodded and admitted, “I understand.”

  That seemed to satisfy the woman, as she wouldn’t have to explain. She began tapping her fingers together at her mouth to carry on. “After the last night with Richard, when he mocked my love so shamelessly, I went immediately to Randolph. I thank God every day that he was still in Winter Garden and could console me. I was desolate and”—she wavered—“and considered taking my own life. He, being the greatest friend I’ve ever had, suggested marriage to each other, saving both of our families disgrace. He would no longer be ridiculed for what people suspected were his sinful indulgences. I would have a father for my child. It took me only two hours to agree.”

  Madeleine felt admiration for both of them through every pore, though she really had no idea how to express that exactly. But Desdemona continued without waiting for a reply.

  “In one week I am leaving Winter Garden, Mrs. DuMais. My husband has invited me to live with his family in the northern country as they recently relocated to Belford, near the Northumberland Coast. They are quite affluent, my husband’s father having just retired from the textile industry, and they’ve shown an interest in our residing with them. Randolph may be gone through the years on duty with the Army, so it’s best that I stay with family who will take me in gladly and help me care for my child. My mother, as you know, is not altogether fond of me now, and will likely despise me when she learns of my betrayal. Randolph’s family will probably, and hopefully, never hear of it, being so far removed from life in this village. That is the only reason I will consent to speaking with the magistrate.”

  Madeleine didn’t comment on the fact that the arrest of a baron would be very serious, widespread, and scandalous news. With any luck, Desdemona could remain rather anonymous in the whole affair, and perhaps only be known to a select few.

  Madeleine reached out for her at last, taking one of Desdemona’s hands in hers, somewhat assuming that the lady would jerk herself free of any comforting embrace. She didn’t. If anything, the simple touch relaxed her, and she sagged even deeper into her large pelisse-mantle, the wisp of a genuine smile of gratitude threatening to cross her pale lips.

  “What does your mother have to say about your leaving, Desdemona?”

  The younger woman shook her head and closed her eyes for a second or two, as if to shield out the enmity to come. “She doesn’t yet know, but I intend to tell her soon. It doesn’t really much matter now, though. My sister will never find a husband, my father’s name will be tarnished, and the very respectable Penelope Bennington-Jones will be ruined along with her loose daughter who defiled them all by laying with Richard Sharon, the great Baron Rothebury—”

  “Who seduced an innocent while he stole expensive opium and smuggled it into the country illegally,” Madeleine interjected as if to soften the brewing storm awaiting the residents of Winter Garden. “He is not a saint, Desdemona, remember that. Your family will survive, and you’ll be fine. You’re a strong woman and you have a husband who is willing to provide for you, who obviously cares for your safety and comfort. Many a lady should be so fortunate.”

  As if caught in a sweet memory, Desdemona smiled at that and squeezed her hand once. “I will never know physical intimacy again, never feel passion—”

  “You don’t know that,” Madeleine cut in.

  Desdemona shook her head sadly in denial and pulled her hand away, turning once more toward the village square. “I do know that, but I will have my child to love and my husband as my friend. It is enough.”

  Madeleine sighed, unable to argue such practicality, and started to walk down the road again, stepping away from the gutter filled with muddy, melting snow. Desdemona followed at her side.

  “When are you returning to France?” she asked her quietly, in mild contemplation as she changed the subject.

  Madeleine didn’t particularly want to think about that. “I’m not certain. Soon, though.”

  Desdemona eyed her carefully. “What do you intend to do about Mr. Blackwood?”

  She felt her pulse quicken but she tried to ignore it. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  For the first time since they’d met at the church, the young lady at her side gave every indication of being the enlightened one, the mature one, the one with the knowledge as she smiled cleverly and shook her head very slowly.

  “He’s in love with you, you know.”

  Madeleine paused in her stride, her mouth going dry. “I beg your pardon?”

  “In love,” Desdemona repeated, “and very deeply, I think.”

  The woman was clearly mistaken. “I don’t think so.”

  “No?” Desdemona chuckled at that. “Everybody in the village is aware of it, Mrs. DuMais. It is so extremely obvious I was certain you knew or at least suspected. But then I suppose where love is concerned we’re all a little blind, especially when we don’t want to see what is before us.”

  Madeleine stilled from head to toe, awash with numbness, feeling trapped suddenly. Like a doe running head-on into her hunter.

  “May I offer you a suggestion, Mrs. DuMais?”

  The words sounded sharp and shrill to her ears, echoing loudly. Coldness blanketed her, and a wisp of wind swept snow crystals into the air to strike the bare skin on her face.

  But she was a professional and refused to notice these things, refused to acknowledge a remark that was clearly unfounded. Attempting to remain dignified, she responded politely, “Of course.”

  Desdemona scrutinized her, up and down, then admonished, “I would never forgo a chance to be with someone who loved me passionately. That will never happen to me now, because I will not leave my husband. I take my marriage vows very seriously, and we have a child on the way whose protection must be considered.” She stepped closer and dropped her voice to just above a whisper. “But I saw Mr. Blackwood look at you once, while the two of you were walking together in the village, and I read his feelings for you on his face like an open book. He loves you desperately, Mrs. DuMais, the word is spreading rapidly through Winter Garden, and I am envious. He is a cripple, true, but I would follow him, or any man, to the farthest edges of the earth to have him look at me like that. Just once.”

  Madeleine had never been so disconcerted by a disclosure in her life. She stood there, stunned, gaping foolishly, head spinning. Suddenly the words she’d been hearing in her mind all morning no longer sounded beautiful, but loud, raucous, piercing.

  I don’t want you to leave, Madeleine.

  All I want is you, Madeleine. All I’ve ever wanted is you.

  Will you love me now, Maddie?

  He had asked her that with a tangible fear in his eyes, and at the time she’d assumed he’d been referring to lovemaking. Now the specifics of his phrasing took on a grave new depth that she could no longer ignore. What Desdemona suggested she had, in fact, considered herself, but not so carefully. Perhaps she just hadn’t wanted to see it at all. She could deal with his lovemaking, a casual affair with a definite conclusion to which they both aspired. But she didn’t think she could accept his love. Not real, passionate, desperate love. She didn’t know how to handle it or return it. Madeleine felt herself begin to shake. She clutched her hands tightly together in her muff, trying to remain collected.

  Desdemona stood erect once more and wiped her palms down her mantle nonchalantly, no longer looking at her. “I’m sure you’re aware that my mother hates you,” she confided frankly.

  Madele
ine didn’t know whether to laugh or scream or thank the lady politely for such a quick shift in topic. “I suppose she does,” she managed to reply, her mouth as dry and grating as carpenter’s sandpaper.

  Desdemona brushed a ringlet from an icy-pink cheek. “Do you know why?”

  She searched the younger woman’s round, innocent face for a moment, uncertain how she was supposed to answer. “I imagine because I am French.”

  Desdemona smiled satisfactorily and peered into her eyes. “But you are wrong, Mrs. DuMais. My mother despises you because you are so very English.”

  Madeleine felt the blood drain from her face, and Desdemona snickered delightedly when she noticed it, hugging herself again and rocking back on her heels.

  “You weren’t prepared for that, were you?”

  She couldn’t move or speak.

  Desdemona guessed this apparently and carried on with a casual lift of her shoulders. “Aside from your very thick French accent, you are the epitome of all that is respected in an Englishwoman, Mrs. DuMais. You are cordial when others rudely defame you, educated for your class, reserved as you should be, graceful and sophisticated in style and manner, and your grasp of the English language is superb. My mother abhors seeing those qualities in a Frog.”

  Desdemona’s gaze became intense. “It’s possible there are many Frenchwomen like you. I wouldn’t know. The point is, although we place so much value on breeding and class, it’s obvious that the place or status of one’s birth is highly irrelevant to the person one becomes. You could be an Englishwoman should you choose to be, and others would learn to respect you as one. Perhaps that’s what Mr. Blackwood admires about you, and wants you to see in yourself while you’re here.”

  Desdemona turned her attention to the village square, so empty and bleak and white. “You know, I have lived in Winter Garden my entire life and I have never seen it snow. Everything changes, and I suppose this is a sign that it’s time to move on.” She glanced a final time to Madeleine and nodded once formally. “I will do what I can to help you, but I am leaving Saturday. The magistrate must call on me before then. Good-bye, Mrs. DuMais. I wish you well in your endeavors.”