Price of Privilege

by Jessica Dotta

  “I wouldn’t worry about Edward.” Mr. Addams chuckled. “You should have seen him. He was frightening to behold. One of his finest moments, let me tell you! And I consider myself amongst his chief critics. Chin high, he stood like marble and allowed them to bombard him, giving no response. Then, when they finally ran out of the offal and tired of throwing dirt, he simply flicked the entrails from his face and marched to the front of the church, where, still covered in muck, he married Henry and Elizabeth.”

  Tears streaked Mrs. Windham’s face as she wailed openly and reached out for Mr. and Mrs. Smih’s assistance. When she reached the ground, she made a show of clinging to her sister as though unable to walk.

  I half believed her, for I wasn’t certain I could command my limbs either.

  “Come on!” Mr. Addams whispered in direct response to my thoughts. “We’ll crawl through the shrubs. Trust me, we don’t want to know if they reserved anything just for you.”

  I waited for Edward at the ancient oak, keeping my eyes fixed on the mossy bole, scarcely able to hold back tears as a new idea formed.

  I was only grasping the beginning of it, but the implications were dire.

  During my time at London House, I recalled, Isaac had pointed out an article to my father about a certain architect they knew. Apparently the man had been commissioned to build a row of houses in the West End, but the foundation had been poured crooked. He’d built several stories upwards before the error was realized.

  My father frowned as he read it. “The sooner he tears the old down and replaces it with new, the better.”

  Isaac lightly tapped his fingers over the ivory tablecloth, the only sign the idea was distasteful to him. “Yes, but what a shame considering the marble is cut and laid, not to mention the labor already invested in those staircases. The wood panelling was transferred from a castle in Prussia, too. It’s centuries old and cannot be unfastened now.”

  “The longer they try to save their efforts, the more money and materials they’ll waste.” My father returned to his own paper, indicating the discussion had ended.

  Isaac wore no expression as he picked up his paper and perused the next page.

  But I’d sat silently, disagreeing with my father.

  Secretly I considered how Mr. Macy had maintained the ancient edifice at Eastbourne. I tapped my foot against the chair, imagining how many people would have given up on me if everyone took that philosophy. I poured tea, hoping the builder would press on and save his project. As I stirred a spoonful of sugar into the brew, I even went so far as to silently will that he not give up.

  The architect was of the same mind. He redoubled his efforts. Less than a fortnight later, his houses collapsed in such a way that it devastated the next row of houses as well. It financially ruined him.

  Isaac commented on that article also.

  “Never try to fix a wrong foundation,” was all my father said. “It’s impossible.”

  As I awaited Edward at the ancient oak, it was that conversation that my mind continually returned to. It didn’t encapsulate the entire idea I wanted to form, but it brushed against the general concept. What if I were like those row houses? My foundation was most certainly crooked, and story upon story had been added since my childhood.

  I’d married Macy, lived a lie, acted heartless toward Isaac. The longer I reflected on it, I was forced to also acknowledge that I’d become wild of late too.

  My vision blurred as I wiped the wetness from my eyes. At what point, I wondered, do rationally minded people remove such a soul from their lives and focus only on that which is recoverable? My scandals, my out-of-control temper, my melancholy, all suggested that at my very core, I was crumbling and falling apart.

  And at what point ought I free Edward from such humiliation?

  “Never mind that rabble,” Mr. Addams said cheerfully when I sniffled too loud. “They haven’t even bothered to learn the elementary points of logic. If you consider it, they can’t rightfully call Edward a bigamist. He only married once.”

  “He was called that?” I wiped my eyes with the heel of my free hand.

  He chuckled as if able to see something about this situation that I couldn’t. “Oh yes! He was called lots of things. Some called him a murderer, others a bigamist, and at least one—the man pelting rotten eggs—called him a Pharisee.” He laughed again, rubbing his hands. “But if you think of it, that one is actually funny. I’ve desired to call him that myself, only I’ve managed to refrain, not wanting to become one.”

  I gritted my teeth. To hold one’s tongue requires as much strength as lambasting a person. Thus it took all my energy to keep from giving Mr. Addams a show of my temper he’d never forget.

  He kept watch, occasionally shaking his head and chuckling. How long we remained there is impossible to say. It felt like the entire afternoon to me, but it might have been no more than three-quarters of an hour. Eventually a noisy trampling sounded from the bush and Edward emerged.

  Edward acknowledged my approach with a slight nod.

  I threw myself into his arms, my heart breaking. The version of him that had emerged through the brush was a far cry from the whistling boy who’d taken leave of me that morning. I knew without asking that he’d also cut ties with his parents—of that, there was no doubt.

  Later I learned his ordeal hadn’t ended at the church. After the ceremony, Lady Foxmore located him as he bathed in a stream. From her carriage, she needled him with her tongue, crowing out her final victory over him.

  He rubbed sand over his arms in circles, scraping the dried refuse from his skin, pretending he could neither see nor hear her.

  I clung to him. “I am so sorry that happened. So sorry!”

  Anger tightened his body as he looked in Mr. Addams’s direction. “You told her!”

  “Well, you didn’t say I couldn’t.”

  “I shouldn’t have had to! Are you daft?”

  Mr. Addams gave a flippant bow. “Yes, well, you’re very welcome. No, no, don’t thank me. It was my pleasure. If you ever need me again, please feel free to ask. Anytime, ol’ chap.”

  Edward ignored him and took stock of me. “I’m sorry; I wanted to break it gently. Are you all right?”

  I nodded, feeling tears gather.

  “Did anyone see you? Should we find a different spot?”

  I tucked a wisp of my hair behind my ear. “No.”

  “Again,” Mr. Addams said behind me, “that was my doing. You’re very welcome. You can thank me anytime now.”

  “Where’s Jameson?” Edward asked.

  I shrugged, not certain which one of us he was asking.

  Edward heaved an annoyed sigh, then took a folded note out of his pocket and passed it to Mr. Addams. “Go find him and give that to him.”

  “Are you serious?” Mr. Addams demanded. “Not even a thank-you. For someone who thinks our society treats servants like chattel, you certainly could use a few lessons on how to treat your frien—”

  The feral look Edward gave him made him snap his mouth shut.

  “Fine!” He swiped the note from Edward’s fingers, then retrieved his coat from the branch he’d hung it on. “But you really ought to learn better manners.”

  Edward waited until we could no longer hear him. Then, without a word, he crushed me so tightly that I suspected he fought back tears. Guilt assailed me as his right hand scrunched my chignon over and over, as if he was assuring himself that I was truly there.

  I leaned against him, feeling guilty for dragging him down with me.

  “We need to leave this area as soon as possible. Macy still has a reward out for you. I suspect more than one person will be hunting us tonight.”

  I felt my eyes widen as I wondered if anyone from this village would dare to hold me hostage, hoping to collect the five thousand pounds.

  “Judging by Mrs. Windham’s expression after speaking with my parents,” Edward continued, loosening his hold, “I doubt even Am Meer will house us tonight, though I
intend to try. It’ll be a bitter night if we end up sleeping on Windhaven’s floor, but I don’t think we should travel during a new moon.”

  “Where will we go?” I asked.

  He gave me a grim look.

  A strong wind stirred the branches, bringing with it the mossy scent. I looked skyward, unable to believe that already Edward and I were considering my father.

  Perhaps I was cursed.

  Anger flared through me. If that were true, then my curse came with a name and a face.

  Fisting my hands, I considered the long shadow Mr. Macy had cast over my life. When had he not haunted me? Surely he had anathematized me from the hour of my birth.

  Wind stirred tendrils of my hair as I recalled how I’d been lied to and manipulated even as he romanced me. In succession my mind reviewed each Cimmerian kiss and infernal caress with disgust. Unbeknownst to me, with each one I’d quietly been surrendering my life to him, dismantling my own future.

  To say that I hated Mr. Macy in that moment is an understatement. I wanted to see him toppled; I wanted him ruined. No, even more I wanted his destruction to come by my hand and for him to know it.

  All at once I saw how marvelous my position truly was.

  Out of the entire world, only two people held the keys to his undoing.

  And I was one.

  EDWARD GAVE AM MEER’S door a sound rap. I watched as blue paint lost its hold and fluttered to the ground. The bright specks reminded me of the stars studding the welkin that had stretched over the cottage only last night. I touched the peeling paint, fascinated that it disintegrated so easily beneath my fingers. Surely it hadn’t always been this way, or Lady Foxmore’s footman would have pounded it completely off before now.

  I studied the dusting of blue over my fingertips, saddened at how soluble life was. A week ago, I’d attended a party celebrating my engagement to Isaac. Five days ago I’d blackmailed Macy. Only sixteen hours ago, I’d stood on these grounds, the vicar’s bride, loved and accepted. In less than a sun’s cycle, we’d been reduced to the status of outcasts with little hope of receiving any succor. Unlike Elizabeth, Mrs. Windham wasn’t likely to stand up against the tide of public opinion.

  “Paint,” Jameson supplied behind me as I continued to stare at my fingers. “Humans use it to brighten things, though it seems to have an opposite effect on your kind.”

  I chuckled before I could help it. Never before had a soul so easily burst my melancholy thoughts. I dusted my hands, smiling over my shoulder at him, when the door swung open.

  A haggard-looking Betsy peeked out. Her cap was askew and sleeves rolled above her elbows. “Oh, it’s you.” She heaved a great sigh as if her mind were on the pile of dishes still left to tackle. I wanted to ask her if Elizabeth had left me a message. If she’d cried in private, believing her wedding had been ruined. Before I could, however, Betsy said, “I’m to tell you that your effects have been moved to the stable. Mrs. Windham desires no intrusions.”

  I glanced toward the stable that sat beneath piling thunderheads and silently urged Thomas to make haste. I’d been in the leaky structure before when it had rained. If the clouds burst, I feared my trunks and their contents might be ruined.

  Betsy made to shut the door, but Edward held it. “Tell Mrs. Windham we’re not quitting this property until I’ve spoken with her in person. There’s been too much injustice in this parish today to willingly accept more.”

  Betsy threw her weight against the door. “My orders are to allow no one inside.”

  Edward proved stronger, and within seconds he stormed down the hall. He opened the doors to the drawing room, dining room, and office before facing me. “Well, I can’t intrude in her bedchamber alone. Come with me? Which one is it?”

  I gave Betsy a brief, apologetic look. She’d always been kind to me during my visits, and I knew Hannah would censure her later. Facing my husband, I pointed toward Mrs. Windham’s door. “It’s the last one on the right.”

  He pounded on it, then signalled for me to hurry.

  I stepped into the dark flagstone hall, aware that this was likely the last time I’d lay eyes on Am Meer’s interior. The childhood ghosts of Elizabeth and me rose in visions: playing rag dolls on the bench, mothering the basket of kittens we’d rescued, sword fighting with the canes in the oak barrel. I felt tears rising, but then, like one snuffing out a candle, I banished even my hallowed memories.

  I squared my shoulders, deepening my resolve to oversee Macy’s downfall. I could not afford to falter here; I would not quail. If he robbed me of my childhood safe place, then I would banish any need for it. I would forbid even memories, if necessary, to cope. I met Edward’s piercing gaze, overwhelmed with gladness that he was still left to me.

  He noted the change in me but, outside of a slight movement of his jaw, gave no indication what he thought of the fevered coolness of my personality. His mouth set in a firm line as he banged on the bedchamber door a second time.

  Behind me, Jameson said, “Come along, Betsy; I’ll help you scrub the pots while the overlords squabble this out.”

  When I reached Edward, he pounded a third time. “Mrs. Windham, I know you’re there!”

  This time the door flung open, and Hannah poked out her glaring face. “Have you gone mad! This is a house of respectable folk.”

  Behind her, Mrs. Windham cried out in a sniffling voice, “Hannah . . . who comes?”

  I shut my eyes, knowing our mission had failed, for it was impossible that she hadn’t heard Edward.

  Hannah narrowed her eyes and said in a composed voice, “’Tis Mister Edward Auburn and . . .” Something about Edward’s face must have warned her not to call me Mrs. Macy. She swallowed. “And Miss Julia, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Windham made a hiccupping sound, followed by, “Send them in.”

  Hannah swung the door wide enough for entry.

  The shutters had been closed and locked, so darkness enveloped the chamber. I caught sight of Mrs. Smih’s disapproving eyes as she faced us. Ramrod straight, she sat in a chair with hands folded over her stomach. The angle of her head, the way she shifted her eyes, suggested she found us too disgraceful to acknowledge. Mr. Smih lounged, absorbed in a book.

  Mrs. Windham lay abed, propped up by pillows. A single lamp covered by a paper shade gave off weak light. She turned toward me as large tears formed in her eyes.

  “I suppose you’re here to laugh at me in person,” she said. “I should have known you would return only to ruin the wedding out of jealousy.”

  Hannah stepped forward to plump the bedding. Her face flushed, she pummelled the pillows in a manner that made me believe she wished they were Mrs. Windham. “Rest. Pay no mind to them.”

  Edward glowered. “Why are you in bed? Are you ill?”

  “Ill?” Mrs. Windham lifted one arm and allowed it to drop back to the pillow, a deadweight. “I am dying and he asks if I’m ill!”

  “Here now, such talk.” Hannah moved toward a table near the bed, where a silver teapot sat next to a platter filled with meat pies. She poured a cup of tea. “Calm yourself.”

  Mrs. Windham let out a dramatic moan.

  My mouth twitched as I struggled to keep from laughing. I felt as though I were watching a stage performance. Surely this was some deviant comedy. She couldn’t truly believe we’d come home for the sole purpose of ruining the wedding. A strange hilarity came over me. I secretly planned to bring down England’s foremost criminal, and my quest began here, the bedchamber of the country’s silliest woman. I compressed my lips, trying to hold back a laugh.

  Mrs. Windham faced me, dabbing puffy eyes. “I have not much time left, so you may as well tell me why you’ve tortured me and ruined my life. Did I refuse you a treat in your childhood? Were you so envious of Elizabeth’s prospects that you had to shame us?”

  “Elizabeth’s prospects?” I asked. “Her twenty-five pounds per annum?”

  “Yes, her prospects!” Mrs. Windham shrieked, startling me. Her limbs miraculous
ly recovered as she took a sitting position and waved her rumpled handkerchief beneath my nose. “All you’ve ever done is try to outshine her. When Henry fell in love with her, you clamped on to Edward. Then, when I took you to Eastbourne, you threw yourself at Mr. Macy even though his intentions toward Elizabeth couldn’t have been clearer!”

  “You took her to Eastbourne?” Mrs. Smih gasped, then clasped her sister’s forearm. “Edith! Please tell me you’re not mixed up in this . . . this . . . sordid affair with Mr. Macy and his bride.”

  A wailing cry was her answer.

  Hannah reached into a shallow basin, withdrew a cloth, and wrung it out before attempting to place it on Mrs. Windham’s head. “Lie back and rest.”

  Mrs. Windham sobbed all the louder.

  Edward studied the room, hands in his frock coat pockets, as emotionless as an engineer surveying a river he meant to build a bridge over. Glad he wasn’t being pulled into the drama, I bent my head to hide my own rising irritation.

  Instinctively I knew that if I knelt by her bedside and coaxed and petted her, I might be able to earn us a night at Am Meer. She loved nothing more than audiences. However, everything that happened today had left me unsympathetic and cold.

  “I even housed Lord Dalry without a single complaint after you disappeared.” Mrs. Windham tore the cloth from her forehead. “I went out of my way to make certain the best foods and linens were available to him. But did you ever write and thank me? Not one letter! Not one note to tell me you were alive and well.”

  “I’m . . . sorry . . . but did you just say he came after she . . . ?” Mrs. Smih’s fingers rose and covered her mouth.

  Even Mr. Smih stopped ignoring us and looked up from his book.

  I locked my fingers behind my gown and waited for her to connect that Lord Pierson’s daughter had entered society just after Macy’s bride was kidnapped by a vicar. The idea that I was about to be fully discovered at Am Meer by Mrs. Windham’s sister was so absurd that I couldn’t even muster fear.