Anne remembered with regret the unlocked door in the basement of the manor. But for her, escape was not possible. She remembered her vow. She remembered her family.
Anne, isolated and alone, shivered in the empty Westmeare canopy bed. She drew her knees up to her chest under the thick counterpane and sank into a restless sleep.
After one week, Lord Westmeare ceased his nightly visits to his bride’s bedchamber.
Chapter 16
July 1812
Hartwood Manor
Each morning, Lord Westmeare joined his bride for breakfast and bantered cordially about inconsequential topics. Anne began to wonder if her husband were completely sane. Anne wondered about the first Viscountess. What had she been like? Did she receive the same treatment? Lady Beatrice never produced an heir. Then she died suddenly, the result of a riding accident.
Anne shuddered as she considered that fate. Was it an accident? Or did Westmeare plan for it to happen? He did not even wait a year before proposing to Anne, a much younger woman. Healthier? More fertile? More likely to produce an heir? Lloyd thought so.
The Viscount wanted, no, needed, an heir. His father, the old Earl, demanded it.
But what should she do if her husband refused to join her under the counterpane? While he insisted she bear him children, he did not take his part. His actions and his words made no sense to her. Her husband was an enigma.
And did it not matter that Anne possessed no proper dowry? While in London, Anne heard rumors that the Viscount Westmeare had acquired extensive gambling debts. If this were true, would it not be necessary for him to marry a woman of considerable wealth in order to enrich his coffers?
She did learn that somehow her husband was able to repay those considerable debts. But by what means remained a mystery. Perhaps Beatrice provided the wealth and she, Anne, was to provide the heir. So many questions with no answers.
Anne knew virtually nothing about the first Viscountess. Now she lay in the village cemetery entombed within gray granite. Anne wondered if this would be her fate if she failed to produce a son.
Anne did not want to follow that thought process too far. It frightened and angered her. She was trapped in a loveless marriage. There was nowhere for her to flee. Her parents were dead and everyone in the shire felt beholden to Westmeare. From the servants who owed their livelihoods to him, to the farmers who owed their tenancies to him, no one would help her or confront Lord Westmeare.
She thought of writing to her Aunt Martha, but how could she put her fears into words? Who would believe her?
Fate did not favor her with what she wanted most. A loving companion. A champion. Anne was alone. But she would not give in. Needs must. She would find a way to make this strange marriage succeed.
Somehow she would find a way.
Chapter 17
July 1812
Chalk Caves
Surrey, England
Lanterns guttered from niches scored in the dull white surface of the chalk cavern, casting vague shadows that writhed along the high ceiling and silhouetted the forms of half a dozen men hunched over sodden crates and barrels. The cavern reeked of sea and salt. The drenched men spoke in hushed tones.
“Good ’aul tonight,” one said as he attacked the lid of another sea-soaked chest. The saturated wood resisted the crowbar that he wielded so deftly. He heaved again. The lid burst open.
“The master ought to be ’appy,” responded another.
“Aye. But ’ave ye ever seen him ’appy?” another man sniggered. The other men guffawed as well.
“Shut your yaps,” growled a dark wiry man stooped over a large crate. His thin voice echoed in the chamber. “And get back to work! We must get this load sorted and stowed away afore dawn.”
A few of the men muttered, but the sounds of pried lids and rasping hinges resumed.
Somewhere a door opened and closed. The air in the room altered. The lamps smoked and dimmed as the shadow of a man appeared in the darker recesses of the chalk cave. The soft sand swallowed his footsteps. Dressed in an elegant cloak, the shadow stepped into the lamplight. His clothes bore no evidence of the violent storm outside.
The men paused in their work and peered at the new arrival. They took one look at the man, ducked down their heads, and resumed their tasks. All attempts at conversation ceased.
The man’s lips twitched as he scrutinized the masses of boxes and kegs that lined the walls and covered the sandy floor. He approached a large timber casket. Withdrawing a lace-trimmed handkerchief from a pocket of his cloak, the man dusted off the top and eased himself down.
“Well? How did tonight’s run go? Was it successful?” He spoke to the air.
The thin voice again rose from the middle of the chamber. “Aye, milord. There were a wild storm out in the Channel as we predicted. And the Vesper bound for Portsmouth went down. Dozens of boxes and kegs floated ashore and the mates rowed out and retrieved many more. It were a good haul.”
A hunched dark form emerged from behind a tower of crates. With black-stained hands, he pulled something from deep within his pocket and offered it to the gentleman. “Look at this!”
The man in the warm dry cloak accepted the object in his gloved hand and hefted it, estimating its weight. His dark eyes glinted in the light of a nearby lantern. He turned the sapphire and diamond necklace over, studying it with a practiced eye. His lips formed into a thin smile.
“And these were with it!” The small man produced a pair of matching earrings from his other pocket. He held them up to the light.
“Aha,” the cloaked man murmured, his smile widening. “Yes! What a beautiful set. These will bring a pretty penny. A damn pretty penny indeed!” With his free hand, the man reached for the earrings.
The small man bobbed his head in agreement, his own smile a crooked parody of that of his master.
Looking again over the heap of stacked cases, the gentleman said, “This is a good take. Very good.” Then twisting his neck, he glared at his minion and asked, “And no one detected you, Jasper? Were there any survivors?”
“Nay! It were dark as pitch. The wind fierce. But the return from the channel shore were easy more or less.” The dark man grinned. “The lads here kept to the gorse and bracken. The simple folk huddled by their hearths and minded their own business.”
The well-dressed man grunted in response.
“Sully left brandy kegs at the White Hart Inn. Clive did so at the Six Bells. And Bill dropped his over at Swan’s. The tavern keepers will keep silent, right, lads?”
The three named men looked up and snorted in agreement. They snatched quick glances at the man in the cloak and then bent to their tasks.
“Naught to worry about there,” Jasper continued. “No survivors. No witnesses. When we are done, the men will take their pack horses and return to their own cottages. This night’s deeds are nearly finished.”
The chalk chamber fell silent. The elegant man’s attention focused on the necklace. His gloved fingers embraced it. His dark eyes caressed it.
One by one, the workers hefted their tools onto their backs. One by one, they doffed their caps to the gentleman and bobbed their heads at their dark chief. One by one, they filed out of the cavern and disappeared, swallowed by the black, wet night.
Soon the cave held only the cloaked man and his subordinate, Jasper. The man held up the sapphire necklace. “This bauble will bring a pretty pound for certain.” He paused. “It is unfortunate I cannot make this necklace a gift for my new wife.” He hesitated as he shifted the necklace from one hand to the other. “Yes, it is a damned pity. But it must be sold!”
The brilliant stones captured the glow of a nearby lantern, revealing the depth and luster of their color. “Ah, but this would look so very lovely wrapped around her slender neck, resting between the h
ollow of her sweet breasts. Think how it would catch the light as she breathes.” He tightened his fingers around the necklace and pressed it against his cravat. Then he slipped the necklace and the earrings into a pocket of his cloak. “Perhaps I will keep these. For just a while.”
Jasper squinted up at the man, but remained silent.
The gentleman’s gaze returned to the boxes and remaining kegs as he once more appraised the haul. “Yes, all this plunder will bring a pretty profit. I need the money now, but unhappily we must wait before we can contact our agents in London. There may yet be survivors from the Vesper or even family members who could recognize the spoils. And as always there will be the insurance agents nosing around. We must be patient.”
He steepled his gloved fingers. “I may make a brief trip up to London in a few days. Just to hear if there are any rumors or newspaper reports or official word of the unfortunate Vesper.”
With those parting words, he uncoiled himself from the casket. Swirling his fingers and thumbs, he retreated toward the back of the cavern and disappeared into the shadows.
Jasper winced as his black eyes followed the retreating form until it faded within a fissure in the wall.
Chapter 18
July 1812
Hartwood Manor
The next morning, a month into their marriage, Lord Westmeare strode into the breakfast room and announced, “My regiment is being called to India, but first I must report to headquarters in London. As a Colonel in his Majesty’s army, I must obey his call to duty.”
Anne shocked by this unexpected revelation asked, “When will you depart?”
“Probably in a month.”
“How long will you be gone, my lord?”
“Possibly years, my dear,” he said, while seating himself opposite her. “Why? Will you miss me?”
Before she could compose an appropriate answer, he responded without looking at her, “How charming.”
Anne fired off a series of questions. “What shall I do while you are gone? Shall I manage the estate? The servants? Will I have the authority to control matters here?”
He turned his gaze on her with mild amusement. “My steward, Jasper Winebiddle, will be in charge of the estate, my dear. And the staff will look after everything else. I will place a few hundred pounds in an account for you. Plus you already have that jointure and the pin money clause secured by your uncle’s solicitor.” His lip curled. “That should be enough until I send for you.”
“Send for me?” she asked, her mind in a turmoil.
“Yes, of course. A Colonel’s wife should be on hand for distaff functions and for the sake of propriety. You are my wife and I will have need of you. On occasion. I will write from India when I desire you to join me there.”
He rose suddenly, approached her chair, and grasped her chin in his right hand. To Anne’s astonishment, he was not wearing gloves. His fingers were cold. He never before directly met her gaze, but he did so now.
“Remember your duty to me and to my house,” he whispered. His dark eyes narrowed as he grasped her hand and raised it to his lips. Then freeing her, he hastily stepped away and busied the fingers and thumb of the other hand.
“Mark me, before you leave England, you may stop in London to enrich your wardrobe. I will not have any wife of mine looking like a country bumpkin. There may be balls, parties, and other social events. You will need an ample supply of gowns and day dresses.”
“How many servants should I take?” Anne asked, rising from her seat and moving away as soon as she thought prudent. This was the first time he had touched her in weeks. She edged toward the window, forcing herself to think coherently. During the night a wild Channel storm had raged inland, hurling tree boughs and other debris across the park.
The sun’s early rays glinted on the rain-soaked grass, dissolving the mist as it rose off the wide sweeping lawn. Beyond the lawn, the lake appeared serene in contrast to Anne’s wildly beating heart. A pair of black swans sailed across the tranquil water. A grove of elms and oaks bordered the opposite side of the lake. This was such a beautiful part of the estate.
Anne unlatched a section of the casement to allow in some cleansing air. The room seemed to contract around her, stifling her ability to breathe and to think.
Albert slipped behind her and placed his cold gloveless hand on her waist. It rested there limply. Anne went rigid. She sensed the heat of her skin leach out of her body. She felt his dry icy fingers through her muslin gown. Shocked by this so very intimate act, Anne repressed a gasp and tried to pull away, but he forced her against his hips.
“You will take two ladies’ maids. Bridget and Celia will do. And a footman. That will be Gabriel.” He whispered in her ear, “I will visit you before I leave, my dear. Do not disappoint me.”
Anne’s face flushed. Did the servants see? Servants saw and heard everything. What must they think?
Albert withdrew his hands and stepped over to the table and rang the tiny silver service bell. Its clear high tone drew the attention of the servants who appeared at his elbow. As he sat down, he slipped a glove onto to his right hand.
“I need refreshment. Serve me.” The servants bustled around the breakfast room and began to carry silver serving platters to the table. A servant placed a copy of the London Times at the Viscount’s left hand. Another servant came forward and seated Anne at the oblong table opposite the Viscount. A taut smile creased her face as she accepted eggs and toast and raspberry jam and a rasher of bacon.
Tears burned at the back of her eyes. Her throat felt dry and she took a sip of tea to try and wash away her frustration and humiliation. It took every ounce of strength to steady her shaking hands. The tea was hot and sweet. Anne felt encouraged to try the food. She did not feel hungry, but if she did not eat, the staff might wonder.
As usual, the fare was excellent. She must remember to thank Mrs. Clarke, the cook, when she later ascended the servants’ stairs to discuss the dinner and supper menus for the day with her.
Turning to gaze across the table, she forced herself to look at her husband as he chewed precisely and delicately on his bacon and omelet. After breakfast, he disappeared without a word, leaving Anne to ponder her present circumstances and her future.
What would happen tonight?
Chapter 19
The following morning, Lord Westmeare again greeted his wife in the breakfast room just as he had done every morning since their marriage. He did not visit her bedchamber during the night as he promised—or threatened—to do.
Anne considered the differences between the man who now sat across from her at the breakfast table and the man who had previously visited her in the bedchamber during the first week of their marriage. The one detached, the other frightened.
She could not help but wonder why her husband Albert might be afraid of her. He seemed unable to touch her or to be touched. And he almost always wore gloves. This was a puzzle she needed to solve. She needed to make her marriage a success. But how?
Their conversation turned again to India. “Where will you be stationed?” Anne asked, wishing she could access a detailed map. She had searched the library the day before for an atlas, but did not find one.
“Calcutta at first. That is the center of the Presidency in the east of India. Then we will be assigned to a fort north of Calcutta where our Army unit will be attached to military units of the East India Company. But I will, of course, spend most of my time in Calcutta.”
Anne suspected her face reflected her misgivings because he grimaced and said, “Do not worry, my dear. It will be an adventure.” He steepled his fingers together for a moment and then returned to his breakfast.
Waiting a few minutes, Anne ventured to ask, “Is there a difference between the Army and the East India Company?”
“Perceptive question, my dear
wife,” the viscount responded, looking up from his plate. “The British East India Company, which is at heart a business enterprise, maintains its own armed forces in India, but the Crown supplies additional troops and expertise where and when necessary.”
Anne wondered just what Lord Westmeare’s “expertise” might be. Trying to govern her thoughts and remain calm, Anne made an effort at further conversation. “When will you depart for London?”
“In a few days. There are matters to attend to before I leave for India.” He paused, and Anne observed the facial tic reappear on his left cheek. “I have some property I must dispose of first.”
“Shall I accompany you to London?”
“Good lord, no,” he said. “Where would you stay? Certainly not at my club.”
“Don’t you own a townhouse in London?” Anne wondered aloud.
“I did, but found it to be too ex . . . er—” He cleared his throat. “Too unnecessary. I sold it last year. As well as all of its furnishings.”
Anne tried to maintain her composure. Perhaps there was some substance to the rumors whispered in London. Albert Grenville, Lord Westmeare, was in debt. Serious debt. She considered the gossip she had heard while shopping for her wedding trousseau. It was a peculiar time for Anne, one filled with anxiety about her new role as wife and mistress of Hartwood Manor. She had tried to ignore what she overheard, but the murmurings about Westmeare’s debts followed her everywhere.
“If . . . If I accompanied you, I could stay with my Aunt Martha. As you know, she and her husband recently returned to England and they live now in London. I would dearly enjoy a visit with them.”
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