Ondine

by Heather Graham

  The king shook his head. “Nay, I do not think so. William wants her for Raoul, for uncontestable right to the title and lands. The cousin, Raoul, merely—wants her. If she is careful and clever—which she is—she will survive well enough.”

  “There is no way, sire, that I can know this and not become involved!” Warwick stated flatly.

  “I know, I know.” The king sighed, but a grin played about the corners of his lips, and in truth, he was well pleased. “You should be near, to slay a dragon should the absolute need arise. Yet I beg you, do not rush in. Find some other way, if you really love her, to help her prove her innocence. And for God’s sake, Warwick, do control that temper of yours!”

  “I’ll do my very best,” Warwick replied stiffly.

  “Both your lives may well depend upon it.”

  Warwick inhaled and exhaled deeply. “Where do I find this place, these lands of Rochester?”

  The king smiled again, quirking a brow. “Why, the duchess resides not two hours from this very place. Southwestward, Chatham. The manor ‘tis called Deauveau Place. It’s a most splendid palace, quite comfortable, really. In fact, far more so than that barbarian manor you keep up in the North.”

  Warwick cast the king a most damning gaze; the king saw fit to laugh, though he knew the situation to be grave.

  “I shall plan a visit myself, I think,” he murmured, “in the next week or two. It will be most interesting to see what has transpired in that time. I wonder if I shall find you near?”

  Warwick smiled at the taunt. He set his mug of ale upon the mantel, and unlike his rude entrance, he bowed most politely to the king as he left.

  “Sire, I do most earnestly promise that you shall, indeed, find me near.”

  Chapter 24

  Released at last from her uncle’s study, Ondine fled up the fine oak stairway to her set of rooms, closing the doors behind her and sliding the bolt. For long moments she stood there, her back supported by wood, while she gasped for breath. It was done! She was here; she had passed through that first confrontation with life and limb still intact.

  Gasping once again and aching from weakness, she fled across the wide sitting room to the next set of doors. She came to her bedchamber and lay down upon her mattress, tears stinging her eyes.

  Here, too, nothing had changed. Her rooms remained as she had left them. The cover on the bed was still the lovely damask spread her father had bought from the Spanish traders. The light silk gauze that framed the Flemish posts came from the distant Japans, and the water ewer and bowl upon her white-and-gold dresser had been bought by her father years ago from the Venetians.

  She bit down hard on her lip to keep from sobbing. She’d learned what seemed a lifetime ago not to feel, not to mourn. But coming home impressed upon her heart her father’s absence. This house was his, and those who had deceived and killed him ruled it, tarnishing all that they touched.

  “Oh, Father!” she whispered aloud.

  Then she forced herself to breathe deeply, for she did not wish to cry out; her uncle might well have enlisted spies among the household to listen at her door!

  She caught her breath, trying to dispel the panic that settled over her along with an overwhelming sense of doom. Here she sought a needle in a haystack—and had given herself scant time for the search. Only thirty days …

  Blood suffused her face and she rolled onto her stomach, burying her burning cheeks into her pillows. A physician! To see that she remained pure and chaste for marriage—with the vilest of snakes!

  “Oh, dear Lord, help me!” she whispered aloud, for she had much to fear.

  Nay, there was nothing to fear. Long before the wedding drew near, she would have discovered what “documentation” they had forged of her treason, or else she would have run once again. She must smile and give demure assent to any such requirement that they voiced.

  There was a far greater terror to be faced! William did not trust her; he had sworn he would find out where she had been…

  She rose and paced the room nervously. Coming to the great floor-length windows that opened onto her balcony, she threw them open and stepped out to the small oval protrusion. She looked out upon the lawn, covered now in its crystal blanket of snow. Even the great oaks that dipped on either side of the balcony were touched with ice and looked as if they carried stars of heaven on their branches. So beautiful …

  Chatham. What would Chatham look like now? An ice palace, too, encompassed in winter? Hung with crepe in mourning, perhaps. By now poor Mathilda would have joined those haunts she heard in her mind; her body would lie in the crypt; masons would be working upon her memorial. Clinton’s heart would be heavy still; but he was a man to look sorrow in the face and move on. Justin would be practical, smooth, and gentle, easing things toward normality once again. And Warwick …

  Where would Warwick be? Surely he had ranted and raved when he discovered her gone! He brooked no disobedience to his orders. Ah, how tender he had been that night, how caring …

  Autocrat! He’d sought their divorce already. There was naught to cling to in his tenderness, for, with blunt and brutal words, he’d assured her once that the lust of the flesh had nothing to do with emotion. Perhaps—having found that he could not cast her across the distance of an ocean, since she was not available to be cast!— he had already traveled back to London, ready to hound the king for his freedom. His blood was no longer tainted by ghosts; he might choose an heiress from anywhere he wished.

  She closed her eyes tightly, annoyingly near tears again. She must have a firm grip upon herself! She must hate him, despise him, and then forget him, casting her mind entirely to her own cause. Ah, but he was part of all that frightened her now, for she knew not what avenue William might pursue in his quest for her past.

  Great tremors began to rack her, and she gripped the balcony rail despite the ice upon it. If William were to discover her already wed, he would surely find the means to kill her himself.

  She turned from the balcony and came back to lie upon her bed, unaccountably weary. But rest gave her no solace, for she did not sleep. She ran her hand over the spread and felt the softness of the mattress. When she dared to close her eyes, she saw not darkness, but Warwick. Her husband was lean and corded, his shoulders naked in the moonlight, his eyes a glitter of gold, intent with purpose, as he stalked her, a man in quest of his wife …

  “Oh!” she groaned softly and twisted in shame, for she could not forget him. She could not forget how he held her when he had come to her, could not but yearn and imagine that he would find her here, sleep beside her on this bed, hold her naked and quivering and yet secure to his heart…

  With an exclamation of fury she was on her feet. She would think of him no more! Rather she should plan now, for her search in this haystack for the precious golden needle! Tonight when everyone slept, she would search her uncle’s office. Dismally she thought that nothing would be there; William was too sly to be so obvious.

  There was a tap upon her door, she hurried to her sitting room to answer it.

  Jem stood there, with two lads behind him, bringing her her trunks of newly purchased finery. She smiled and bid him enter, glad once again for the pleasure she had given him.

  “Into the bedroom with them, lads,” Jem instructed, and the boys obeyed. Ondine did not know the two, which gave her a moment’s unease, for she was forced to realize that her uncle had changed most of the household staff. Indeed, it seemed somewhat strange, in view of all, that Jem remained in his position.

  They deposited the trunks, and Jem instructed them to return to work in the kitchen.

  When they were gone, he took Ondine’s hands. “Dear, dear girl! If you need me, I am here! Think, milady! You mustn’t marry Raoul! Not while there is life and breath—”

  Ondine shushed him quickly, looking about to warn him that the very walls might have ears. “I’ll not marry him, Jem, have no fear. Yet I implore you to take care in your distance from me, for if ought should go wr
ong, I would not have you pay.”

  His aged and crinkled face carried the deepest dignity. “I’d pay with my life, lady.”

  “Nay, nay! Make no sacrifices, for your life cannot aid me! Trust in me, Jem, that I shall take care.”

  He nodded slowly and miserably.

  “Shall I send your maid to help with your trunks?”

  Her eyes widened with a sudden pleasure as she thought of Liza, the sweet young girl, her lady’s maid, she had left behind.

  “Liza!” she cried. “Oh, aye, for dearly I’d love to see her!”

  Jem shook his head dolefully.

  “Liza is to remain in the kitchen. William has ordered another for your personal care. Berta.”

  “Berta?” Ondine frowned. She knew no Berta.

  “She is new, lady.” Jem hesitated. “Your uncle’s lackey, that she is, spying on the rest of us!”

  Ondine exhaled a long breath, then nodded in resignation. She had known that William would watch her like a hawk. She lifted her shoulders listlessly. “Send her, then, Jem. I might as well spend this time in setting my private space to order!”

  Berta arrived with uncanny speed once Jem had closed the door behind himself. She was a tall woman, Ondine’s own height, but much heavier, though not prone to fat. Rather, Ondine thought with a certain dry amusement, she was built like a knight! She had broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a blunt square face with wee piggish eyes that were neither dark nor light, but some vague shade of taupe. She entered the room with her arms crossed over her ample breasts and stared at Ondine with all but a sneer and snicker.

  “Milady, I’ve been asigned to serve you,” she said pleasantly.

  And Ondine came near to laughter. You’ve come for anything but to serve! she thought. Yet she smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you, Berta. I’m sure we shall get along famously. Would you see to my trunks, please, then?”

  Berta nodded and lumbered past her. Ondine decided that though Berta might be a rugged foe in a test of arms, she would never be fleet of foot!

  She wandered back to the balcony, glad of the fresh cold air as she listened to the sounds of Berta unpacking. Cumbersome she might be, but efficient, for the woman finished quickly and returned to Ondine.

  “His Lordship has said that dinner will be at eight, and that you are to join them at precisely that time. It grows late. Shall I order your bath?”

  “I don’t believe that I shall bathe before dinner.”

  Still Berta remained.

  “His Lordsh—your uncle has suggested that you shall bathe each night at dark.”

  “Suggested?” Ondine queried heatedly, trying to control her temper.

  Berta had either the good sense or the grace to lower her eyes and speak with a modicum of care and kindness. “Raoul wishes, er, that you should be fresh at all times, milady.”

  “Raoul! Raoul!” she snapped without thought. “My cousin feels that contact with water more than once a month will render him dying of a lung malady, yet he orders me—never mind!” She spun around, shaking with fury, trying to remind herself that she loved to bathe, so little hardship would come to her.

  Berta cleared her throat. “It has also been… suggested, milady, that if you refuse, you be given assistance.”

  Ondine swung back around. “Meaning, Berta, that you are ordered to drag me into a tub should I refuse.”

  Berta said nothing, but shuffled her feet.

  Ondine sighed. “Order the bath, then!”

  She fumed all the while that preparations were made, aware that she was made a prisoner in her own home, taught that her place was little better than the servants’, nay, even less so! For the servants were not the subject of her uncle’s strict scrutiny, nor of Raoul’s demented eravings.

  When Berta went to touch her with the soap, Ondine came near to slapping her. She managed to contain herself, crisply enunciating that she would be left alone at this point.

  Berta did leave her then, and she sank into the hot water, relieved by the steam. But her peace was scant; Berta returned quickly to be there when she rose, ready with a towel. Nor did she escape further administrations, for Berta remained to comb and brush her hair, and in this the unlikely lady’s maid was surprisingly talented, smoothing tangles from the long skeins of hair while affording a minimum of pain. Disagreement arose again then, for Ondine wished to have her hair coiled atop her head; Berta informed her that Raoul wished to see it free and untethered down her back.

  Ondine held her temper just barely, then shrugged.

  She asked for one of her new high-necked gowns. Berta brought one from her closet that had been there before her return, an organdy with a deep neckline. Ondine thought that her temper would surely erupt, yet she contented herself with throwing her brush across the room and thinking nasty thoughts of Raoul. Look, Cousin, all you will! Stare, then! For I swear you’ll burn in hell before you ever touch me!

  Dressed at last—exactly as had been ordered!—Ondine came back down the stairs and through the hallway to the great room, where her uncle and cousin awaited her at the table. They rose for her to sit, and though she kept her eyes downcast, she was vividly aware of their stares. William’s was suspicious; Raoul’s both appreciative and smugly satisfied.

  “Good evening, Niece,” William said pleasantly enough.seat-ing himself again once she was down. “Welcome … to your table.”

  “Is it my table?” she asked sweetly.

  He set his lip grimly and moved to pour her wine.

  “You look … lovely,” Raoul commented.

  “Just as you wished?”

  “Aye, just as I wished.”

  Ondine managed to retain her smile. Raoul was the weaker of the two, and she might well need this advantage. She turned about as a platter of lamb was offered to her, then frowned, for she didn’t know the man carrying the silver tray; Jem should have been serving.

  She waited until they had been left alone in the room and then asked, “Where is Jem?”

  Her uncle broke off a piece of bread and chewed it thoroughly, watching her before he spoke.

  “Jem will work in the kitchen now.”

  Ondine gasped with outrage. “He is too old for such heavy work! You will kill him—”

  “I think he will manage,” William interrupted dryly.

  Raoul reached his hand across the table, winding his fingers around hers. She thought to pull them away; he held them fast, and her eyes, too liquid with tears, came to his.

  “It is best this way,” he told her.

  “It is the best, Niece, that you and Jem will get!” William said flatly. “I find myself suspicious of him. And you, my dear, are aware that I trust you not in the least. Stay apart from each other, Ondine, unless you would cause this dear friend greater discomfort!”

  She tried to sip her wine, but choked upon it, snapping out, “Oh, I despise you both!”

  Raoul stiffened; William smiled. “Watch this beautiful kitten you so desire, Raoul. She is far from declawed!”

  Raoul’s fingers tightened punishingly around Ondine’s. “What matters, Father, her heart—she is beaten. And she will yet learn to wear her collar with grace. One month, Ondine,” he added softly, “and I will see you completely humbled.”

  She managed to wrench her fingers from his and folded her hands in her lap.

  “You’re not eating, my dear,” William remarked pleasantly. She said nothing in response, and he apparently lost interest, indulging his hearty appetite. He turned to his son. “The lead carriage horse has lost another shoe. We must find a new blacksmith by tomorrow.”

  Ondine shrieked out an oath that astounded them both and was quickly on her feet, challenging them furiously. That they should send Jem to the kitchen was sorry enough a complication, but Nat, the blacksmith, had served Deauveaus for generations, and she would not see him cast out on her account.

  “Jem is not good enough for you, Uncle?” she demanded, her hands set rebelliously on her hips, her chin upthrust
. “You must vent your cruelty upon Nat, too? I’ll not see him or speak to him, Iswearit! But don’t cast him away, I”—she hesitated, swallowing back bile—“I beg you, I implore you,” she said more softly, lowering her eyes in surrender. “Please, I’ ll make whatever concessions you demand, but do not leave Nat without a living as winter approaches!”

  She dared to look at William again, only to discover him smiling with the greatest amusement and cynical pleasure. “Very, very pretty, my dear! But alas! I’ve nothing to bargain with! I did not cast Nat out of the property on your account; he died last week, of the most natural causes, a happy old man.”

  Chagrined, Ondine hesitated, then faltered. She stared across the table to Raoul. His dark eyes were curiously intent upon her, and she realized with a little rush of fear that her passionate defense of Nat had only served to excite his interest.

  Raoul might prefer her soft and acquiescent, but he was not adverse to the excitement of a challenge. He would, indeed, enjoy breaking her to his will.

  But she dared not think of such things, else she would find herself running now, no closer to justice than she had ever been. She raised her chin once again and asked quietly, “Is this true?”

  “Aye, Ondine. His goodwife said that he came to his cottage one night, hale and hearty as ever despite his age, yet fell asleep and simply did not waken.”

  She swallowed once again, lowered her eyes, then sat. But though the lamb was delicious, herb laden and minted, she could not eat. One swallow made her queasy, and she thought it a result of her wretched discomfort with her return home.

  She kept her head lowered and meekly requested their leave to return to her room.

  And again she knew that William watched her bowed head, trying to fathom her pretense. “You’ll have to learn, and quickly, Duchess, to appreciate the company of your family.”

  “I am weary only, Uncle,” she said in a soft tone. “The travel today, the excitement of coming home …”

  Her voice trailed away. He watched her a moment longer. “You may go to your room,” he said at last.

  She rose and swiftly moved to leave the room.