"There could be other avenues for her. Perhaps she has gone to London to find solace. It won't take her long to realize there are many wealthy men who would give their souls to take care of a woman as unique and lovely as she," Cumberland answered.
"Damn you! Mind your implications, sir!" Avenel beat his fist on the library table, making the Vitruvian scroll at its satin- wood edge waver.
"You pushed her too far! You pushed her until she broke under the strain. I daresay, it's my fault. I should have helped her leave that night she spent in the stable block, just as I helped you twenty years ago on that ship. But back then I was a mere shiphand and not the rich man I am today." Cumberland confronted Avenel, his blue eyes full of worry and guilt.
"I did what I had to do," Avenel answered, his voice low and distant.
"Did you, now?" There was an edge to Cumberland's voice.
"Enough of this!" Rose entered the library from the passage. "I'll not hear you argue any further!"
"Stay out of this!" Avenel snapped, unmindful of his regard for his cousin. He fingered the precious bit of tattered gray- pink silk in his lap.
"I shall not. I'm afraid I must be blunt. For while you are at each other's throats, Brienne is wandering about the countryside, completely alone and with no funds to spare her from begging for her dinner. And since she has already been with" —she paused and gave Avenel an accusatory stare—"we must at least try to prevent her from having to resort to—"
"Enough." Avenel swept an anguished hand through his unkempt hair. Giving a heavy sigh, he rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "I accept the responsibility for this. Tis no other's fault but my own. I shall leave tonight for Wales. I will find her before she wants for anything, I promise." He stood up, looking quite haggard, and started out the door. Cumberland grabbed his sleeve.
"You know, of course, Slane, that I never had any children." He paused. "I never had a daughter. I'll never have a daughter." Cumberland looked straight at him, almost pleading with him. "When you find her, you must forget about Morrow. Treat her as you would my daughter, if you can. She deserves that at least." He let go of Avenel's sleeve and sat down heavily in one of the honey-colored elbowchairs, looking beaten and unutterably worn.
Avenel looked at him and then nodded his head rigidly, staring ahead at the darkened windowpanes. It was already the second night.
Numbness was all around Brienne, even in the trees that stood motionless with frost clinging to every branch and nub. She had been walking for three days, hardly stopping for sleep and not once for food. Her feet seemed almost separate from the rest of her body as they trudged onward through the damp spring countryside to the west. The only cheerful sight she beheld was the countrywomen, dressed in bright scarlet cloaks, taking their daily walks through the small old villages that dotted the Cotswold Hills. The day before, she had walked up to one of these women who had held a basket of warm, braided, honey-brown bread on her arm. Steam rose from the folds of cloth that covered the loaves, and the temptation had been too much for her. Hungrily, she had approached the woman; her eyes were like great, purple saucers and her stomach was tightly knotted.
"Hello," she had said, unmindful of her soiled hemline and her dirty, knotted hair. "The bread—it truly smells wonderful."
"Aye, does it?" The woman smiled benignly at her, her attention taken with greeting some neighbors as they passed on a wagon.
"It's irresistible." Brienne licked her dry lips, which were bleeding from the cold and wind.
"Have you any coin, then? I'll not be handing out to beggars." The woman eyed her doubtfully. "And I must say, you don't look as if you possess—" She gasped when she met Brienne's unusual violet gaze. There was a moment of quiet, and then the woman burst out, "Your eyes are most uncanny. Are you a witch come to curse me?"
"A witch? I'm no witch!" she defended.
"Even the color of your hair is unreal. Mistress Crocker has been claiming all along that a spell was put on her when she lost her two boys. She said they were fine until a witch passed her on the road. She claims the witch and her black deeds turned them around in her womb and then had them strangled as they were born." The scarlet cloaked woman backed from her; Brienne watched as the loaves moved farther away.
"Please don't go! I am sorry for the Mistress Crocker, but I am so hungry. I must have some of your bread."
"You'll curse me and poison my loaves, you will!" The woman ran from her; the flaming cloak rippled behind her.
"No, no!" She watched in panic as the coveted bread was whisked away on the woman's arm.
"Go away! I'll not be seen with a witch!" were the last words Brienne heard as she was left devastated on the barren road to Bath.
But now the whole incident didn't seem to matter much. Hunger was a distant and deniable need; of late she had been able to refuse its demands with little effort. There wasn't a great deal of feeling left anywhere in her body as she trudged up yet another steep, snow-patched hill, only to find still another waiting for her as she looked down from the top. The only thing that spurred her on was the thought of Avenel.
After her last encounter with him, all Brienne wanted, all she thought about, was putting more distance between herself and Osterley. Even the possibility of meeting up with her father in Bath seemed tolerable in order to get away from Avenel's grasp. She knew she was taking a great risk going to Bath; she prayed that the earl was staying in his London town house, as the solicitor had said. Still, Brienne knew she had to prepare for the dangerous possibility that the earl might be in Bath.
So during the long, wretched hours of her trip, she had devised a plan. She told herself she would go to the house in Bath and pose as a servant in need of employ. After making inquiries as to whether the earl was in residence, she would proceed to leave or to stay, depending on the situation. She hadn't decided what she would do if it was necessary to leave Bath to avoid the earl No matter how hard she wracked her brains to remember a long-lost relative of her mother's or even a kind friend who would take her in, she came up with nothing. If the earl was in Bath, her only salvation would be to return to Wales. Yet that plan hinged on her ability to get enough money. But there, at least, she would be safe. The earl knew nothing of that place. Suddenly she blanched; her carefully laid plans fell to wrack and ruin: Avenel knew of Tenby.
Avenel. The name echoed through her weary mind, producing a fearsome headache. For the past few days as she walked, her thoughts had spun with self-loathing, hatred, and disgust. She wondered how she could ever have been so dim-witted as to allow a misspent colonial gambler to take her to his bed. After the earl had raped her mother, she had vowed never to let anything like that happen to her.
But Brienne knew, deep down, that there could be no comparison. For as much as she had learned to hate Avenel's manipulative ways, she had wanted him with a desire that had rivaled his own. She knew she had loved him, although her mind rebelled at the thought now. Even that last evening when he had shown up in her bedchamber, angry and half drunk, she had wanted him. He had shown to her pleasure that could be at once sin and salvation. No matter how much she had wished to kill him when he had rolled off her that last time at Osterley, the worst she'd been able to do was smash the green Sevres vase over his head. It had sent him into blissful unconsciousness while she dressed in her tattered pink silk and ran from the house. She had uttered her last words to him as he had lain at her feet, naked and beautiful in his defenselessness; in a voice fraught with anger and pain she'd said, "You demented beast! You'll no longer use me in this vicious war! From now on, let Osterley be the battleground!" With that she had knelt beside him and placed a bitter kiss on his lips. But she had felt more pain than she could express at the thought of never seeing him again or at the thought of why that must always be so.
The stone-colored Georgian city lay nestled in the golden hills above the river Avon. When Brienne first saw Bath she was awed by its wealth and grandeur. She
avoided the main road into town, where a parade of personages were going into the city; she felt too self-conscious about her shabby appearance to join the ranks of poets, wits, and society patrons. Therefore, she reached Bath through various sheep fields that graced the higher elevations of the town. Now, along busy Milsom Street
, where the smart lending libraries and bookshops were located, she found herself aghast and wondering how amongst the many streets would she find her father's house.
She wandered about in her raggedy apparel, feeling completely out of place. The gentry, bedecked in peacock-colored satins, velvets, and brocades, rode alongside her, carried about in their square black chairs. One or two of the chairmen glanced her way, but she was too afraid to ask them for directions. Walking down Milsom Street
, she felt dizzy, the hardships of the past few days finally caught up with her.
A man dressed in garnet velvet rudely bumped into her. Taking note of her impoverished appearance, he said harshly, "Out of my path, trollop!" He moved away and entered a milliner's, whose window was delightfully filled with every color of satin ribbon possible, from parrot green and fiery orange to the deepest shades of sapphire, ruby, and emerald.
She stared after the man, too tired to feel more than slightly affronted by his abuse. She knew she was not going to last long without some food, and now she only wanted to find a resting place sans Oliver Morrow.
Walking farther down the hilly street, she spied a wizened, poorly garbed old woman hawking fresh flowers on the corner. Hoping she could give her the directions she needed, she patted her tangled and matted hair and approached her.
"Pardon me. I am looking for—"
"We 'ave no need for another beggar in this city." She laughed, showing her lack of teeth. "Away with you, 'afore you cause ruination to the business." The ancient woman spat a thick, greenish sputum and pulled her greasy, gray skirts back from Brienne.
"Please, you misunderstand. I am in need of directions. The Crescent—if you would but tell me where it is?" she said in an overwrought voice.
"The Royal Crescent
? The scullery help there is in better shape than you, missy." She gave her a jaundiced eye. "But you're a pretty creature! Would you be wantin' a posy for your trip there?" She smiled, showing blackened gums, as the heavy, sickly-sweet odor of rotting violets wafted from her basket.
"No, thank you." Brienne swallowed her nausea.
"Then be off with you! The welfare of the business, you see." The woman was apologetic as she picked up her baskets of violets and multihued tulips and walked away to find a less competitive corner.
Placing a shaking hand over her mouth, Brienne frowned; the cloying scent of violets in the seller's wake made her feel ill. Suddenly she seemed overwhelmed by the problems that had plagued her since she'd left Osterley. Her birthright she felt forced to deny, but it was galling to her that, she, the daughter of a powerful earl, was reduced to an impoverished existence on the streets of Bath with no one civil enough to give her directions. If she weren't accused of witchery, then it was begging. Suddenly she felt as if she'd been an outcast her entire life. Only at Osterley, where she should have felt least welcome, had she ever really belonged.
This irony made her feel almost like giving up. Perhaps, she mused, she could find a meadow where only the black sheep grazed and lie down in the sparse, grassy field and close her eyes, never to reopen them again. She would see her mother again, the only person who had ever loved her. Her lips trembled at the thought of her mother, and quite unbidden, her thoughts grew as dark as a thunderstorm.
"I couldn't help but overhear, pretty maiden. You are looking for The Crescent?"
She was startled out of her morbid thoughts by a kind, masculine voice. Looking up, she saw an appreciative pair of brown eyes, and as she gazed into their soothing depths, she wondered if she might make it after all.
"You seek The Crescent?" the young man asked her again. Though his manner was polite, his gaze was warm and intimate. At first glance he seemed to overlook her dirty, travel- worn state and instead see the woman underneath.
"Yes," Brienne began warily, lowering her eyes from his appraisal. Quickly she pulled up her hood to cover her hair. The man seemed to pay an unusual amount of attention to its strange color, and this unnerved her. She wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible, on the chance that the earl was in town.
She began an assessment of the man. Although not particularly tall and broad, his figure was muscular and well proportioned. He possessed a handsome face. It wasn't dark and fierce, but it was still handsome and could have graced one of the Roman statues in Osterley's hall. His blond hair was neatly bag-tied onto his nape, his eyes were drawn with fine golden brows, and his nose was straight; the slight flare of each nostril gave him an air of unmistakable integrity. Brienne instantly found herself wanting to trust him, but she reminded herself, she had learned hard lessons at Osterley. Finally she answered, "Yes, I am looking for The Royal Crescent."
"Then may I be of some assistance? You're going in the wrong direction. The Crescent is up Milsom Street
and then through King's Circus and—" The man suddenly frowned, as if noticing her weary state for the first time. "Perhaps I'd best take you. Quite frankly, you do not look as if you could make it there alone." He nodded at the high-sprung, lacquered carriage that waited for him at the bottom of the street. "Allow me." He graciously offered her his arm.
"I'm afraid I cannot." Brienne stepped back; her sudden movement made her dizzy. She didn't know what to make of this stranger's generous offer.
"Please, princess. You look as if you're ready to drop." He grasped her arm and steadied her, and she found his fingers warm and pleasant.
"Princess—what a name to be calling me," she murmured, finding his name for her at odds with her appearance.
"It's not so strange. Not when one considers how you speak. "You speak like nobility, princess." His eyes examined her gently. "And if you didn't have that dirty cloak to hide behind, I daresay, you would look like nobility, too."
"I am going to The Royal Crescent to find employment as a servant," she said quickly. "I'm afraid you are mistaken."
"Mistaken or not, allow me to take you there." He smiled a beckoning, boyish smile.
She hesitated, but when he began steering her toward the carriage, she decided a real servant wouldn't refuse the generous offer of a ride. She would only make herself more conspicuous by refusing it.
Once inside the large black carriage, she began to doubt the wisdom of her decision. She wondered if she should have insisted upon directions and then, after doling out hearty thanks, trooped up the hill on her own.
But the stuffed leather seat of the carriage's comfortable interior compelled her to believe otherwise. As soon as she was seated, she realized how bone tired she was. She was as tired as one could be without dropping in the gutter. She watched the young man take the other seat and knock on the door for the driver to be off, and she returned his smile, praying that he would truly take her to The Royal Crescent and not to his apartments.
As they lurched forward through the streets, the young man peered into Brienne's muddied, delicate face.
"Is The Crescent very far?" she inquired politely.
"No, but I cannot promise a quick ride. Carriages are inconvenient in Bath." He smiled at her, but she only dropped her eyes again, finding his curious stare highly unnerving. She then noticed the slow pace they were taking to avoid collisions with the numerous chairs being towed in front of them. She finally looked out the window to ease her discomfort.
They had just left King's Circus with its three curved Palladian buildings, encircling a large cobblestoned center. Her delight was tempered with exhaustion, but the buildings were undeniably magnificent with their three orders of capitals— Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian—and with the sandy, acorn- carved finials that alternated above roof level.
"This ride is an unusual kindness
." Her smile wavered. Examining the interior of the massive coach and the man's fine purple embroidered worsted topcoat, she was sure the man had wealth. She wondered if he were titled, too, but remembering the absence of a crest on the carriage door, she decided he was not.
"It's of no consequence whatsoever."
"Do you often offer rides to lost beggars?" she asked pointedly.
"No. Only when they are exquisitely beautiful."
His comment and his dark brown eyes left her dumbstruck until the carriage came to a halt on Brock Street
.
"Is this The Crescent?"
"My coachman needs the house number." He looked to her, but she was able to hide her consternation.
"The house number?" she echoed in a desultory manner.
"Well, there are at least thirty residences. Which one do you claim, princess?" he prodded gently.
"I cannot recall." She racked her memory for the number. She was taking too many risks already today to show up at the wrong house. "I have heard it spoken of as the first one. Could here be a first one, perhaps?"
"There's Number One. Shall we stop there?"
"Yes. That will be fine." She bit her lower lip as he intruded the coachman through the window. They began to move again.
Suddenly Brienne was plagued by doubt. What if the earl were in residence after all? Could she then make it to Tenby?
What if Avenel had somehow outmaneuvered her and were waiting for her here? What if the earl were not in residence but the servants didn't believe she was Oliver Morrow's daughter? What if . . . ? Her mind was pelted by questions, but all too soon they stopped at Number One, The Crescent.
"Allow me." The young gentleman jumped from the vehicle and extended his hand to help her down. Nervously she looked up at the house that faced Brock Street
with its two- story Ionic columns and rusticated ground floor. She couldn't see the rest of the building as it wound around the corner, and so, feeling a bit less intimidated, she turned to thank the young man.
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