While she was in London, the Dowager Duchess and Baynton had called on Elin to see how she fared. Now that she was back home, Baynton had made a point of writing Elin at least once a week. His letters were brusque and far from newsy. He’d mention a piece of legislation he was trying to see passed or the name of someone he’d dined with, then close with just his signature. Elin suspected he dictated his letters to his secretary, and she could hear her mother’s voice chiding her to be more patient with such an important, busy man.
And then, after months of silence, a week ago, Elin had received the invitation to the wedding breakfast and her father’s letter ordering her back to the city. The time has come, daughter, he wrote, to see to your obligation to marry Baynton. I would have it done before Christmas.
The letters were delivered by the hand of a woman named Madame Odette. Madame said she was the daughter of an impoverished French émigré. Although she now was forced to oversee the creation of fine wardrobes, she made a point of telling Elin that her father had been a count before he’d been cruelly robbed of his estates and riches by the rabble during the revolution, a theme Madame harped on every evening over her wine.
She had arrived in Fyclan Morris’s traveling coach followed by a wagon full of fabric, dress patterns, small clothes, and all of the embellishments. She was almost ten years older than Elin and as petite, except with blond hair and blue eyes . . . reminiscent of Jenny Morris.
“Your father wishes me to see you outfitted properly,” she’d informed Elin in her accented English. “You must set aside your black, and the styles in London, they change, they change. Mademoiselle is to be a duchesse. She wants to be an asset to her husband, not an embarrassment.”
So began an agonizing week for Elin of being poked, prodded, and continually criticized by Madame Odette. Or Madame Odious as Elin referred to her in her mind.
Elin did set aside her black. Not willingly, but she did it, and there was more than a little resentment in her doing so. It felt too soon, and sometimes she had the sense of being a sleepwalker. She went through the motions but only because she could not think of how to object, not if this was what her father wanted.
Meanwhile, the dressmaker took numerous liberties. One morning, Elin had come downstairs to seeing the woman mentally cataloging the furniture and art in Heartwood’s front room. She gave orders with the authority of Elin’s father. She talked to the other servants as if they were underlings and had even threatened Mrs. Varney’s housekeeper position when the woman did something that displeased her.
It didn’t make sense to Elin that her father would choose such a woman to escort her to London. She also didn’t appreciate having the safe, predictable sameness of her days interrupted by Madame, and yet Elin did nothing to stop the Frenchwoman from setting her return in motion. Elin knew she must go. He was right when he wrote she had an obligation to Baynton, who had been patient long enough.
She remembered her mother’s saying that the duke wasn’t the sort of man who would cry off. He was honorable, and if she had any pangs of conscience about her not being honest about that “incident” in her past, she reminded herself that this marriage was the one thing her mother wanted. The only meaningful tribute to her. Perhaps she and Baynton would name a daughter after her. Jennifer Tarleton Whitridge. The dream of a daughter helped Elin out of her sadness.
Village girls were hired to finish what sewing needed to be done with the dresses. Heartwood became a hive of activity. The work was done quickly, and Madame announced that the wagon with Elin’s trunks would leave that next morning, while they would depart on the day after tomorrow.
“Why not leave with the wagon?” Elin had asked.
“Because we must leave on Thursday,” was the answer, as if it explained all. Perhaps it did. Madame Odette wore Elin down. She did as told. It was easier than arguing with a Frenchwoman.
And all probably would have been fine, except for what Elin overheard Mrs. Varney whisper to Tillman, the butler, the morning of her departure.
Madame Odette was already in the coach. Elin was saying good-bye to the servants. “This is not farewell, really,” Elin assured them or tried to convince herself. “When I return I will be Trenton’s mistress, but I will see you often. I’ll make a point of it.”
She was going down the line of servants who had turned out to wish her well, offering them little reminders and pretending to be happy. Even Norman the stable master had come up, and he had brought several of his lads with him.
“Mademoiselle,” Madame Odette barked in that imperial tone of hers. “Vite! We must be on the road.”
“She’s anxious to return to London,” Elin overheard Tillman grumble.
“If the master had to choose a mistress, did he have to choose a French whore?” Mrs. Varney had answered.
The housekeeper was known for strong opinions. She had something to say about everyone in the parish.
But this suggestion that not only had her father taken a mistress but that the servants believed she was Madame Odette stunned Elin. It also explained everything—the woman’s high-handedness, her disdain over what Elin thought, and the way she coveted all she saw at Heartwood, the way she acted as if she could own it.
Elin didn’t want to go toward the coach. If the duke had not been expecting her, she would have refused.
However, she had no choice. The duke waited for her. If Heartwood had another traveling coach, she would have ordered that prepared, but there was only the one.
“Mademoiselle, we must leave,” Madame Odious called. Elin faced the coach.
Old Jensen the coachman had come to the door. Elin had known him since childhood. “It would help if we leave, Miss Elin. You never know what we’ll find on the road.”
Her favorite footman, a young man named Craig, a Yorkshireman, held the coach door open. He smiled as he waited, always pleasant and accommodating.
Elin walked to the coach and climbed in, careful to keep her skirts from touching the Frenchwoman’s.
Protecting the coach were two outriders, James and Toby, stable lads who were handy with their fists and could fire a shot. They were good-natured men who had been raised at Heartwood and were loyal to Fyclan Morris. They would keep Elin safe.
Mrs. Varney leaned into the coach. Had she meant for Elin to hear what she’d said? She gave no indication. “We’ll keep you in our prayers, Miss Elin. Don’t worry about Heartwood. I shall run matters as you would wish.”
“Thank you,” Elin heard herself murmur, then the door was shut. The coach swayed as Jensen and Craig climbed up into the box. There was a snap of a whip, and they were off.
They had a three-day trip to London ahead of them with nights spent at inns along the way. The first day’s travel would be relatively short, but the next day would be long.
Too long, Elin reflected, to spend it trapped in such a small space with Madame. She attempted to shut her out with needlework and reading. She tried not to talk, just speaking when asked a direct question. Elin needed to do this as she processed the thought of her father with not only another woman, but this woman.
It defied her imagination.
The second day of travel was worse.
Madame knew Elin was ignoring her and took delight in taking little jabs at her.
“If you keep such a long face, you will create wrinkles that will make you appear a crone,” Madame sang to Elin, as the coach bounced and rolled over a particularly difficult track of road. The movement was upsetting Elin’s stomach, so she couldn’t read or do handwork. The day was also dreary, one of those threatening rain without delivering it.
Elin ignored her by studying the passing scenery outside the coach window. Craig had told her this road was called Woods Road because it traveled through a thick and obviously lonely forest. Elin hadn’t seen a soul for over two hours. A bridge was out on one of the other connecting roads, so Jensen had taken them this way to pick up the Post Road. He’d heard about the bridge the night before at the inn
where they had spent the night.
“Is that what you want, Mademoiselle Morris, the wrinkles of a crone?”
No, what I wish is for you to disappear. Vanish. Begone.
Actually, what Elin really wanted was to return to Heartwood.
“You, English, so stoic.”
Elin didn’t respond but had a vision of giving Madame a push out of the coach.
“I know what you are doing,” Madame said. “You choose to ignore me as if this is a problem. It is not. You may pout all you wish. Of course that is the problem with you Englishwomen. Never satisfied. From the expression on your face, one would think you were returning to London for your beheading instead of a wedding. Or that the duke was ancient or ugly.” She gave a small, cynical half laugh filled with secret envy, and added, “Or poor.”
There was a beat of blessed silence. “I know poor, and I shouldn’t,” Madame continued. “If my family had not been chased out of France and robbed of what was ours, I could have married a prince. And I would not be pouting, I tell you that.” She punctuated her opinion with a condescending laugh and, after listening to more of this chatter than any person could tolerate, Elin had had enough.
She turned to the dressmaker and said, “Are you and my father lovers?”
Madame’s brows lifted.
Elin held her breath, hoping for a denial.
Instead, a change crossed Madame’s lovely face. A mask fell away, and Elin had the impression she was seeing the true woman. She smiled, the satisfied expression of a cat that had got into the cream, as if she knew something Elin could never imagine. “Do you think we are?”
Uncertain, Elin curled her gloved hands in her lap into fists. The day was chilly with a damp that seeped into the coach. She wore a good wool, dark blue cloak over her travel dress and a pair of warm socks with her sensible shoes, but still she felt a chill.
Or was the chill because she found herself in the presence of—what? Avarice? Smugness?
Elin kept her voice level. “If I knew the answer, I would not have asked. However, you seem very sure of your place and disrespectful of mine.”
“One lesson I have learned is that roles can change quickly in life.”
“What does that mean?”
“That you needn’t worry about your future. There, do you feel better now? You will be free of him.”
“What do you mean?”
Madame laughed silently. “You will find out.”
The cramped quarters of the coach became suddenly too close. The woman’s threatening confidence was unnerving. Elin didn’t know how to react or what to think, so she acted. She reached up and knocked on the roof to signal the driver to halt.
Madame Odette grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand down to the tufted velvet seat between them. “What are you doing?” she demanded, but it was too late.
The door slid back, and Craig, who was riding in the box with the driver, said, “Yes, Miss?”
“I wish to stop,” Elin said.
“We will not stop,” Madame countermanded.
Crag closed the door and in seconds the coachman slowed the horses, saying, “Calm, calm now.”
Elin fought the urge to give the dressmaker a triumphant look. The servants were hers, and they listened to her, not a dressmaker.
The battle between the two women wasn’t over yet, but Elin had won a skirmish and given herself the opportunity for a little distance so she could think clearly.
“It is not safe for us to stop here,” Madame Odette complained. “This road is lonely. There could be highwaymen.”
“Highwaymen?” Elin almost laughed.
“Yes,” the Frenchwoman insisted. “It is dangerous. Why else does your father have outriders?”
“He always has me travel with outriders,” Elin answered. “There hasn’t been a highwayman in these woods since the reign of the last king.”
“Times change,” Madame answered, an echo of her earlier words.
“So you have told me.” Elin jerked her arm free and held up a hand to stave back any other attempt to grab her again. “Enough. Leave me alone.”
Craig opened the door. “Is there a problem, Miss Elin?”
“No, and there won’t be.” Elin climbed out of the coach, taking her velvet cap with her. It was a smart thing with a pheasant feather pinned to it. “I need a moment of privacy.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Madame leaned out of the coach. “Do not dawdle. We have a distance to travel.”
Elin didn’t bother to answer. She pulled the cap over her curls, which she wore loose around her shoulders and down her back in defiance of the seamstress’s desire for her to pin them up.
The outriders had been riding a bit ahead and now circled back to see why the coach had stopped. “For a bit of privacy,” Elin said, almost through clenched teeth.
Her servants exchanged glances at her testiness. Elin didn’t care. She started off the road, moving into the woods.
“Don’t go too far,” Toby called.
Elin waved a hand to show that she’d heard him but the truth was, she wished she could walk all the way back to Heartwood. She had no desire to climb back into the coach with Madame Odious. Perhaps Jensen would let her sit in the box and they could put Craig inside with the dressmaker. The footman would be pleased with the idea since he was showing signs that he was sweet on Madame.
It helped to breathe fresh air. As she walked, Elin was startled at how heated her cheeks were.
The Frenchwoman needled her. She’d been deliberately provocative, as if she did not care for Elin’s good opinion. As if she was not worried if Elin reported her conduct to her father. She was very secure in her position. Too secure.
There was a mystery here, and Elin was determined to reason it out.
Her step faltered. She stopped. She was in the center of a copse of trees. Ferns and damp leaves covered the forest floor, muffling sound. Even the birds had fallen silent here in the deep woods.
She took a step back, then another. Her shoulders hit the trunk of a giant oak, and she slowly sank down, resting her head on her knees, heedless of the damp ground.
There had been a time when she’d been certain of God’s good grace, that He had blessed Fyclan Morris and his family. Those were the days when Elin had felt life had purpose.
Now, she wasn’t certain.
The suddenness of her mother’s death had rattled her confidence. Why suffer through the motions of living if Death was all that waited? The futility of life preyed on her mind. She struggled to fight off the blue devils. Right now, they seemed to surround her
And now, her father was making a mockery of his marriage to her mother by giving carte blanche to Madam Odious.
Hot tears threatened, but Elin was made of sterner stuff. She stood up. Her mother would not have let the Frenchwoman have the upper hand, and neither would Elin.
Furthermore, she would tell Baynton the truth about herself. That decision had come to her just in the moment. She was surprised that it still weighed on her mind. She would not tell him of Ben’s involvement but she must let him know she wasn’t perfect. Indeed, she was far from it.
And she needed to be brave, to live as if life did mean something.
Perhaps if she went through the motions of acting as if it all made sense, then someday it might. Someday, she’d understand why she was on this earth and her mother ripped away. “I’m trying to have faith, Mother, but it is so, so difficult.”
Elin began walking back to the coach with a new, forced resolve. She would tolerate Madame, but she would not give her one inch more than she must. When they arrived in London, Elin would make a decision on what to say or not say about the dressmaker to her father.
Chances were, she wouldn’t say anything because she didn’t know if she could stand hearing him profess to love another . . .
She stopped, puzzled.
She’d thought she had walked a straight line into the woods. To her surprise, she hadn’t. The ro
ad was not where she had expected it.
For a second she was tempted to call out and see if anyone answered. However the vision of the smug look on Madame’s face dissuaded her. The road was close. She’d keep walking.
To her relief, she had meandered only a bit, and the road was not that far from where she’d stopped. As she moved forward, she heard a horse whinny and an answering cry. There was the muffled sound of male voices and Madame’s light laughter.
Elin caught sight of the coach through the trees. She was perhaps a hundred yards behind it. With a frustrated sigh, she decided to reach the road before closing the gap between herself and the vehicle.
However, once she had a good view of her coach, she was surprised to see a party of three men on horseback approach. The strangers appeared well traveled, with the brims of their hats pulled low over their eyes.
For some reason, Elin stepped back into the shadows of the trees.
Madame had climbed out of the coach and had apparently been flirting with Craig. She knew the footman found her attractive, and Elin had noticed that when she wasn’t around, the dressmaker enjoyed testing her wiles on any available man. Her poor father. He should have chosen better.
James and Toby had been sitting on their horses, talking to Jensen but at the sight of the travelers, they straightened. The men stopped and nodded in greeting
Madame stepped forward and said something. Elin couldn’t hear the words exchanged, but the servants relaxed.
All seemed fine, and Elin felt foolish lurking in the trees. She had been gone quite some time. They did need to be on their way.
She was about to step out of the tree line when all three of the travelers pulled pistols from their jackets and shot the Morris men.
Chapter Five
Elin stopped midstride and fell back in shock.
She didn’t believe what she’d just witnessed, what she’d heard. The air still rang with the crack of the shots. Her father’s men crumpled. James, falling off his horse; Toby grabbing his chest before dropping to the ground. The coach horses began to startle, but one of the strangers caught the lead horse and held them.
The Match of the Century Page 5