Winter Cottage

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  Claire sat at Victoria’s bedside for the rest of that day, applying cold compresses and feeding her peppermint tea to reduce the fever.

  After Victoria’s body broke into a sweat and her eyes cleared, she was still too weak to sit up, lying curled on her side and silent. Despite repeated telegrams from Mrs. Buchanan, Victoria was not fit to travel.

  Finally, as Victoria’s health improved enough to travel, Claire’s faltered. She thought perhaps she had caught whatever illness her younger charge had contracted, but she soon realized she was pregnant.

  The train ride north was a long, miserable journey. Her waistband now tightened against her expanding belly, and Victoria, who was not the least bit pleased about her marriage to Robert, remained mutinously silent through the trip. With each lurch and rock of the train, Claire’s worry and nausea grew as she thought about facing the Buchanans.

  When they stepped out of the carriage in New York’s Upper West Side, the fall air was crisp and cool. The Buchanans’ residence was heavily influenced by French architecture and contained works of art that dated back to France’s King Louis XV. Inside, there were three elevators, eight fireplaces, a large banquet hall, and a swimming pool. The garden behind the house was as large as a city park and filled with topiaries, a fish pond, and several water fountains. Anyone who lived on the Eastern Shore would never understand Winter Cottage’s humble moniker. But as she stood here now, she understood.

  Claire had always entered the house through the back entrance, but now she had to resist the urge to do so. Pressing a handkerchief to her lips, she pulled back her shoulders and followed Victoria inside.

  Victoria climbed the stairs, and as she reached for the front door, it swung open to Edward. Her cousin wasn’t the most handsome man, and his body never did justice to his tailor’s work, but the bright smile on his face showed how much he’d missed Victoria.

  Victoria normally shooed him away when he beamed like a puppy dog, but this time she wrapped her arms around him. “I have missed you, Edward.”

  Edward embraced her, a mixture of love and relief softening his features. Then he lifted his head and addressed Claire with a mixture of pity and disappointment. “Claire.”

  “Mr. Edward.”

  “You’re wanted in the study,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  He took Victoria by the hand and pulled her into the study, leaving Claire to follow. The study was a massive room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes. A portrait of Mr. Buchanan’s father hung above a gray marble fireplace, and a handmade red-and-navy Turkish rug warmed the floor. Mr. Buchanan stood by his wife, who sat in a burgundy tufted chair.

  “Daddy,” Victoria said, crossing the room.

  Her father embraced his daughter, and he kissed her gently on the forehead. “I understand you haven’t been well.”

  “It’s the reason Claire and I couldn’t travel home until now.”

  “We were worried about you.”

  “I’m no worse for the wear,” she said.

  The father held his daughter back, inspecting her thin frame, and then smiled. “I think you and Edward should have something to eat. You’re too thin. I know Cook has made all your favorites.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she said.

  Victoria tucked her arm into Edward’s, and the two left Claire alone with people who had been a part of her life for nearly sixteen years. However, this new relationship they shared made them virtual strangers.

  Mr. Buchanan walked to a large mahogany desk and sat behind it while his wife rose and closed the door to the study. “It looks like you’ve taken good care of Victoria. I’m grateful, and it’s the reason you’re here now.”

  He was treating her like a servant, ignoring the wedding vows and the growing baby in her belly. “She’s young and strong and I think has recovered fully.”

  “Good.”

  “You received Robert’s telegram about our wedding.”

  He studied papers in front of him. “I did. It’s why I’ve had annulment papers drawn up.”

  “Annulment?” she asked.

  “You didn’t think I’d stand for Robert’s latest rebellion, did you? You’re another one of his messes that I have to clean up.” He tipped the nib of his pen in an inkwell. “You’ll be compensated.”

  “We were lawfully wed,” she said. “And before you proceed, you should know that I’m pregnant with your next grandchild.”

  The word next cut between them. Perhaps if Mr. Buchanan had been kinder, or if Victoria had uttered one word of thanks, she’d have thought twice. Or if she’d been feeling better, or if Robert had been at her side, or if Jimmy were alive. Or, or, or. But none of those options were available to her, and she could not afford to be docile. If she didn’t play her best card now, she’d never get another chance.

  Mrs. Buchanan came to stand beside her, inspecting her breasts and her belly. She shook her head, looking up at her husband.

  “How do I know it’s Robert’s baby?” the old man countered.

  “It’s Robert’s baby, and I’m sure there are several people in the village who would testify that I was almost never seen in town through the summer and was always accompanied by Mrs. Latimer.”

  “I could bring witnesses to say otherwise.”

  “Yes, you could. And I could bring witnesses who can speak about the baby Victoria delivered five weeks ago. I’m sure Edward would not have to dig too deeply to find the boy.” She was playing with fire, but she sensed her father-in-law’s fear of a scandal outweighed any action against the child.

  Mr. Buchanan tossed down the pen, splattering black ink on the paper. “What do you want?”

  This world, their world, would never be hers, nor did she want it to be. She wanted what was hers. “To return to Winter Cottage. I want the house deeded in my name, and I want a trust set up to take care of me and my child.”

  “Don’t forget your husband. He’s a part of your new package.”

  “Of course.”

  He opened a box, counted out cash, and set it on the edge of his desk. “Go on then, take your money and get out of here. I’ll have papers sent to your hotel room by tomorrow.”

  She swayed on her feet, half hoping she didn’t disgrace herself and throw up on his carpet. The door opened with a small click, and she turned to see Mrs. Buchanan standing by the door. Her gaze was soft, but her chin was tipped up in resoluteness.

  She left through the front door, praying she and Robert could make a good life.

  Robert’s military service could only be described as a disappointment. He’d contracted influenza before he’d set sail and spent the last half year recovering in a friend’s home in Baltimore.

  When Robert stepped off the train carrying his bag, it was nearly April, and the weather had turned bitterly cold. His tie was loosened, and his cap set back on his head. For most men, she wouldn’t have thought twice about the casual stance, but that wasn’t Robert. He had always been so careful about his appearance.

  Her belly was heavy when she hurried up to him and wrapped her arms around him. Slowly his hands came up, and she felt him embrace her. “You smell good,” he said, burying his face in the crook of her arm. “All I’ve smelled for the last six months is sickness.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, wishing she were excited to see him. The last few days, there’d only been dread and worry. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  As a husband and wife, they were strangers, but months alone had sown the seeds of hope that once the baby was born and her body returned to normal, she’d feel the desire she knew a woman could have for a man.

  “Home. I suppose this is home for me now.” He looked around the town’s small train station and then at her with such dissatisfaction she felt like she’d been struck.

  She smiled, putting mental distance between herself and his disappointment. “I know it’s been hard for you, being so ill, but the salt air cures most ills.”

  They wal
ked to the waiting carriage, and he helped her climb aboard and then sat next to her. A boy who worked at the cottage had come with her, and he drove them home. They sat in silence, each lost in their own worries.

  When they reached Winter Cottage, Robert helped her down, and she waddled into the house. Mrs. Latimer, thinner and grayer now, greeted them. “Welcome home, Mr. Buchanan.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “If you two don’t mind, I’d like to rest. Claire, would you bring me up a decanter of bourbon?”

  “Are you sure you should be drinking?” she asked. “You’ve been sick.”

  “I’m surer now than ever.” He shrugged off his jacket, handed it to her, and climbed the stairs.

  Mrs. Latimer accepted the coat as she shook her head. “Be careful,” she said. “He’s looking for someone to blame for his turn of fortune.”

  She heard the door close upstairs. “He asked me to marry him. I’m carrying his child.”

  “And you’re the reason he’s banished from New York.”

  She smoothed her hands over her belly. “I was trying to protect his child.”

  “Yes, you were.” Mrs. Latimer smoothed her hand over the coat, absently checking the pockets as she always did when one of the men returned home. In the right breast pocket she found a small, empty flask. “Be careful.”

  “Make him a sandwich. I’ll take it up.”

  Mrs. Latimer carried the coat with her into the kitchen, leaving Claire to fill a decanter with what little bourbon remained in the house. Without the influx of winter hunters or the Buchanans, luxury items that had been restocked almost daily were ignored. Mr. Buchanan had deeded her the house, but the money set aside for its maintenance had been put in a trust that maintained the house but paid its occupant a small stipend that covered only the most basic needs.

  When the sandwich was ready, she carried the tray up to the second floor and knocked briefly before entering the blue room.

  Robert stood by the window, staring at the lighthouse and the bay. His hands were in his pockets, and he’d removed his vest, tie, and shirt. He’d grown so thin, she could see the faint outline of his ribs through his knit undershirt.

  “Why didn’t you accept my father’s offer?” he asked.

  She set the tray down on a small round table. “We’re lawfully married and expecting a child.”

  “Yes. We. Are.”

  “Are you sorry I didn’t take the money and sign the papers?”

  Facing her, he crossed the room and laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbing her smooth skin. His hands had grown rougher since their wedding night. And his touch was bolder, not seducing but demanding.

  Husbands were supposed to want their wives. Her father had loved her mother. She’d sacrificed her life to give him the sons he wanted. But as Robert pushed the cotton away from her shoulder and kissed the naked flesh, she didn’t feel love but hate.

  The drip of his moist kiss on her skin sent ripples of angst, not desire, through her. Hands came up and squeezed her breasts hard, twisting her nipple until she pulled away in pain.

  “Robert, perhaps this is not the best time,” she said.

  He wrapped his hand around her wrist, tightening until those calloused fingers manacled around her skin. “How can you reject a husband you accepted over a fortune?”

  She pushed his hand away. “What has changed so much? I thought I was protecting our marriage—which you wanted.”

  “You’re my wife. I’m your husband. This is what you’re supposed to do for me, correct?”

  “You weren’t like this before.”

  He unfastened the buttons at the top of his pants. Their lovemaking in the days after their wedding had been discreet and modest. She’d yet to see him fully naked and wasn’t keen to do so now.

  He placed his hand to her belly and quickly turned her around, pushing her toward the wall. Her cheek hit the cool plaster and scraped against it.

  Pain throbbed in her head. “Robert, no! Our reunion should be tender.”

  Rough hands jerked up her gown and exposed her knitted underwear. She felt him fumble against her bare skin, and when she wouldn’t open her legs for him, he jabbed his knee between her thighs, prying her legs open. She wasn’t ready for him, so his first attempt at entry failed. When she tried to move away from the wall, he laid his forearm against the back of her neck, pinning her. With his other hand, he repositioned, and this time he was ready for the resistance with force. He pushed inside her, tearing as he went.

  She cried out, and tears filled her eyes. “Robert, why are you doing this?”

  “Do you know why I married you?” he said with his second thrust. She closed her eyes, trying to drive the tension from her body.

  “Because I was angry at my father. He’d forced me into the military. Said it would make a proper man out of me.” He shoved into her again. “Said when I got back, I’d be grateful to marry the right kind of woman and follow his lead into business.” He gripped her hips, his fingernails biting into her skin. “I found the least proper woman for him, determined to teach him a lesson.”

  Tears welled in her eyes as he pounded into her until guttural sounds escaped his lips.

  He collapsed against her, pressing his chest against her back. Tears ran down her face as his heaving breath filled her ears. “He was so angry when I told him about you and then Victoria. I thought he would have a stroke. He begged me to let you go. I told him to pay you off, and when I returned home, we would start fresh. But you wouldn’t take the money. So now we’re here, trapped in this prison together.”

  He stepped back, fastened his pants, and crossed the room to the decanter. He poured himself a drink. When she turned, she didn’t recognize the harsh features that took delight in her red-rimmed eyes and bruised shoulders.

  For the next six weeks, she was never alone with him. He stayed in his room and drank. She slept with her door locked, a kitchen knife under her pillow.

  Claire was nearly nine months pregnant when word came to the cottage that another man had returned home. It was Jimmy Latimer.

  Jimmy had survived the ship that had burst into flames and sunk. He’d been in the Caribbean, healing from his wounds. But she would soon discover that he too wasn’t the same man she’d once known.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lucy

  January 18, 2018

  Lucy helped Natasha up to her room and settled her under the covers.

  “You were pretty great today,” Natasha said groggily.

  “I wish I’d been early.”

  Natasha’s eyes drifted closed and then opened again. “Promise you won’t open the chest without me.”

  “I won’t.”

  The girl grabbed Lucy’s hand, squeezing with a surprising grip. “Promise?”

  “I won’t.”

  Lucy tucked the blanket up under the girl’s chin. She wanted to do more than just promise about the chest. She wanted to promise about the future and tell her everything would be all right. But she couldn’t do that.

  The smell of coffee greeted her when she entered the kitchen. Hank was standing by the counter, looking over some papers. He was frowning.

  “Everything all right?” She crossed to the fridge and retrieved the milk.

  “Bank stuff. I have a meeting in the morning.”

  “Tell me about your plans before I came into the picture.”

  “I wanted to develop a beach community. What little land is left in the Virginia Beach area is too expensive and overdeveloped. Jobs also would have come. It was ideal for a mixed-use development. There’s also deep-water access. Should the vineyard scale up, thanks to your renewed lease, a winery man can be added, and he will enhance the area even more.”

  “I haven’t even seen the vineyard except what I glimpsed driving onto the property.”

  “Not much to see this time of year. But I’ll take you anytime.” He shook his head. “Not everyone in town welcomes change, but it’s now a matter of grow or perish. Famili
es have been in this area since colonial times, but there are so few young families left. They need jobs to stay. The development could change all that.”

  “You’re taking a big risk.”

  “I am.” The coffeepot gurgled out the last of the brew, and he poured two cups.

  She added milk to hers and remembered to put a bit more generous amount in his. “Why do you want to do this?”

  “I’ve got to make this work. I have a thousand moving parts, and there’s not much margin for error.”

  She sipped her coffee. He made his coffee as strong as she made hers. “You strike me as the kind of guy who doesn’t lose often.”

  “Here’s hoping.”

  “You don’t have to stay here tonight. I really can take care of myself and Natasha.”

  He set his cup down carefully. “I said I would, and I will.”

  Truth be told, she didn’t want him to leave, and that in and of itself was a warning sign. “You just said yourself you have a meeting tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get up early. I’ve done it enough times before. Do you want me to open the chest for you?” The question put further discussion to rest.

  “Natasha asked me to wait. She wants to see it opened. She’s on enough pain meds, so she’ll sleep through the night and into the morning.”

  “Good.”

  “What are you going to do about Brian?”

  “He might be doing more than a little jail time, and he knows it. That makes him dangerous.”

  Lucy gave Hank a tentative smile.

  “You’ve been here only a few days, and already you’re making friends.” An attempt at a smile suggested he was trying to lighten the situation.

  A bigger smile tugged at her lips. “I thought this place was going to be a sweet little town. Instead, a crazy guy is stalking me, there are bones in my well, and the house is haunted. And there is the matter that no one can tell me who my father is.”

  His eyes glinted with humor. “Small-town living.”

  “You’ve got to admit, it’s an odd place. I see the charm—the quiet has been a nice change, and it is a beautiful place.”