Lady St. Merryn reached for her salts bottle. “Is she very ill, Daintry? Are we likely to catch something from her? If you go to her, Ethelinda, you must be careful not to carry her illness back to me. I am in no fit state—”
“Cousin Ethelinda need not go upstairs at all, Mama,” Daintry said. “I don’t want her, only Aunt Ophelia.”
“Oh, my dear,” Lady St. Merryn said faintly, “is that how little you care for my health? You must know that Aunt Ophelia will not be at all cautious and, if Susan is truly ill, will not even admit the possibility that I might contract her illness.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Mama,” Daintry said, exasperated, “you will not catch anything from Susan.”
“And just how can you be so certain of that, miss?”
“Because she is not really ill, or not… not in the way you mean,” she added, hoping to cover the slip.
But it was too late. “What do you mean?” Lady St. Merryn said, sitting up. “Is she with child? Is that it? Oh, Geoffrey will be so pleased. He has wanted a son so desperately, and it has seemed so unnatural of Susan not to provide him with one.”
“Geoffrey is not pleased,” Daintry retorted. “If you must know, Mama, Susan came to us for sanctuary because her odious husband beat her so that she can hardly stand. Her face is bruised beyond recognition. I just hope he has broken no bones.”
Lady St. Merryn moaned and fell back against her cushions, her salts bottle firmly clutched beneath her nose. “Oh, what has Susan done?” she moaned. “She was always such a good, obedient child. What dreadful thing can she have done?”
“She did nothing at all,” Daintry said angrily. “Some wicked person wrote her a disgusting letter, claiming Deverill had singled her out for his attentions. Geoffrey read it, of course, and although he must have known perfectly well it was all a sham, he used it as an excuse to beat her. Moreover, if I am not greatly mistaken, he has beaten her many times before now with even less cause to do so.”
“But he must have had cause,” Cousin Ethelinda said reasonably. “Why else would a gentleman do such a thing? And it is not as if Deverill were a saint, you know, for he was a member of Lord Hill’s staff, after all, and we all know what those—”
“I don’t know what would make any man beat his wife like Geoffrey has beaten Susan,” Daintry interjected, unwilling to hear anything more against Deverill, “but if you think my sister, of all people, has done such dreadful things that… Oh, I have no patience for this. The whole notion is absurd.”
“Where is she?” Lady Ophelia asked, getting to her feet.
“In my bedchamber, ma’am,” Daintry said gratefully. “If you will go to her, I will find my father. He must be told about this if he is to protect her. She fears Geoffrey might be hot on her heels, and I for one don’t doubt that he must be.”
Lady St. Merryn sniffed. “Well, I do not believe a word of this. Sir Geoffrey Seacourt is a perfectly charming man who would never lift a finger to harm anyone, let alone a defenseless female. If he has punished Susan, she must have deserved it, and that is all there is about it. It is a husband’s right—indeed, his duty—to punish his wife if she misbehaves.”
“Well, if any man did to another what Geoffrey has done to Susan, he would be thrown in prison,” Daintry snapped. “Even my father will agree to that much, once he sees her poor face.”
And with that, she left the room to search for St. Merryn, finding him in his library, where he was reading his afternoon post. He was none too pleased to be interrupted.
Looking up at her over his wire-rimmed spectacles, he said, “What is it, girl? I’m busy.”
“Papa, Susan is here.”
“What? Surely, we were not expecting them again so soon.”
“No, sir, but she has been dreadfully hurt, and she wants to stay here.”
“Stay here! What nonsense is this? Got a perfectly good home of her own and a husband to look after her, don’t she?”
“Geoffrey hurt her,” Daintry said, striving to remain calm so as not to arouse his temper. “She has run away from him.”
“What’s that you say?”
“She has run away, Papa, because Geoffrey beats her.”
He shrugged. “If she has run away, she must go back.”
“Didn’t you hear me, sir? Geoffrey has beaten her black and blue, and what’s more, he’s keeping his mistress in their house.”
“What business is that of mine—or yours? His mistress is his own business, and he has every right to discipline his wife. Stupid of her to run away. Only forces him to punish her again.”
“How can you say that when she is your own daughter?”
He removed his spectacles, gesturing with them to emphasize his words. “More to the point, girl, is that she is Seacourt’s wife. I have no power to prevent his reclaiming his property, you know. Nor would I want to prevent it. It is his duty to chastise her if she disobeys him, so you tell Susan not to bother to unpack her things. If Seacourt don’t show up to claim her, I’ll pack her right back to him tomorrow.”
“You can’t do that!”
He stood up, dropping his spectacles onto the desk and leaning over it to glare at her. “I not only can, I will. As for you, I’ve had enough impertinence. You go to your bedchamber and stay there till I give you leave to come downstairs again. You’ve got much too far above yourself, what with your aunt’s stuffing your head with her fool notions.” Moving around the desk, he stopped in front of her and, when she did not move, put his face close to hers to say menacingly, “Did you hear me, girl? First you tell that sister of yours what I said, and then you—”
“I won’t,” Daintry cried. “If you won’t help her, then I will, but I won’t let you send her back to that bul—” Her words ended in a sharp cry when he slapped her, and her hand flew to her cheek. She stared at him in shock. Through a mist of tears she saw him lift his hand again, and stepped back, saying angrily, “I’ll go, but I won’t forgive you for this.”
“By God, Seacourt’s got the right way about it,” he growled. “Just remember, girl, a female can always spare herself the indignity of punishment. She need only obey.”
Hurrying upstairs, determined to ignore her stinging cheek and the resentment it stirred, she remembered that St. Merryn had expressed admiration for Geoffrey’s methods before, and realized she would have to take care in future not to stir him to such a pitch as she had today. He generally had given wide berth to her temper, so that she had come to believe herself immune to his blustering, but the painful slap warned her that if she was going to help Susan, she must do so without inciting him to violence again. So deep in thought was she that she nearly tripped over Charley, lying in wait for her in the gallery corridor.
“Aunt Daintry, what are we going to do?” The child’s eyes were wide, and Daintry knew that Melissa had confided at least some of the truth to her.
“I don’t know, darling, but keep Melissa out of Grandpapa’s way. He has said Aunt Susan must go home in the morning, and I do not know what she will want to do about Melissa.”
“But Melissa said Uncle Geoffrey—”
Daintry put a finger to the child’s lips, silencing her. “I know, darling, but we cannot talk about that now. I will speak with Aunt Ophelia, and we will think of something, so you go back to Melissa now and tell her she is not to fret.”
“I already told her that,” Charley said. “She knows I will look after her if I can, but what are we to do?”
“You are to do nothing,” Daintry said firmly. “Just keep Melissa calm. I will do the rest.”
Wishing she were half as confident as she had sounded, she went on to her own bedchamber. Opening the door, the first thing she heard was Lady Ophelia’s voice with a note in it indicating that she was very near to losing her patience.
“Cease your wailing, child, and just be grateful you do not live in ancient Rome, where a husband could kill his wife, not only for adultery, but merely if he caught her drinking wine.”
Certain the old lady had added the last bit only to see if Susan was listening, Daintry forced a laugh. “Not just for drinking wine, ma’am!”
Lady Ophelia sniffed. “A woman who drank wine was believed to have closed her heart to every virtue and opened it to every vice. What happened to you? Your cheek is all red.”
“Nothing to speak of.” Daintry glanced at Nance, standing as still as a mouse near the wardrobe, then back at her great-aunt. “Papa won’t help. What are we going to do?”
Lady Ophelia looked hard at her, as if she wanted to ask again about her reddened cheek, but in the end she said only, “I see how it is. Very well, don’t talk to me. I must think.”
Daintry turned to her sister. “How often has Geoffrey done this, Susan? Why do you allow it?”
Susan sighed. “You are so foolish, Daintry. What, pray, do you think I can do to stop him? What could any woman do?”
“Well, I for one—”
“You would not fare any better against such a man than I have,” Susan said grimly. “You are even smaller than I am, and though you like to think yourself such a firebrand, your temper would mean no more to him than a flame to be beaten out.”
Daintry opened her mouth to deny it, but a vivid memory of the recent scene with her father made her shut it again, and Susan misunderstood, saying, “Oh, you are shocked, I know. So was I, the first time he struck me. The offense was such a small one—I do not even recall it now—but he knocked me down, and I could scarcely believe it. Then, afterward, he was so remorseful. He promised it would never happen again, and I believed him.”
“Geoffrey always seemed so charming, until Mount Edgcumbe.”
“He is almost always charming in public, but at home he has temper tantrums like a little boy, and at such times, I can do nothing right. Usually, he shows that side of himself only at home, but at Mount Edgcumbe, first after he found us talking together and realized that my behavior was causing concern, and then after he fell off that stupid horse—”
“That is why you did not come down to dinner that last night! When I found your door locked, I thought you had merely gone to bed early because you were tired.”
“He was humiliated,” Susan said. “To have fallen at all was bad enough, but to have fallen in front of Alvanley and the Jerseys was worse. He was beside himself, and though I tried my best to placate him, I could not. I could not let anyone see me afterward for fear that they would guess something was wrong, and we left early the next day for the same reason, because Geoffrey was afraid people would see that something was wrong with me.”
“I should think they would! Is that when he did all this?”
“No, the first letter came two days after we got home, and there was a second one this morning.” Susan looked away.
“Two! But who would do such a dreadful thing?”
Susan was silent.
Lady Ophelia said abruptly, “What about Annie, Nance? Would she take them in?” Daintry had forgotten the maid’s presence.
Nance nodded her head but looked wary. “She might, my lady, but I don’t know about Feok or Granny. They mightn’t like it much, particularly if his lordship says they mustn’t.”
No one had to ask which lordship she meant; there was only one at Tuscombe Park. Daintry exchanged a look with her aunt, then said firmly, “His lordship won’t know anything about it, Nance, so he won’t say they mustn’t. What shall we tell them?”
Susan seemed to have withdrawn from the conversation, but Lady Ophelia and Nance were willing to discuss possibilities with Daintry at length, and they finally decided to tell Annie only that Susan wanted to stay at the farm for a time with Melissa. That, they agreed, would leave the erstwhile housemaids to draw their own, no doubt accurate conclusions, but Lady Ophelia said grimly, “That may do us more good than harm in the end.”
“We’ll go first thing in the morning,” Daintry said, “unless you think, Nance, that you ought to go over at once and tell Annie to expect us.”
“No,” Lady Ophelia said. “Better to make it a matter of mercy, when Feok and Dewy are in the fields and Annie must speak face to face with Susan. She won’t ask questions then, of you or Susan; however, she and Mrs. Popple would certainly demand answers from Nance if they had her all to themselves beforehand.”
Nance nodded. “I’d have to tell them the whole truth, I would, and like as not Granny would cut up a mite stiff.”
Susan said miserably, “I don’t want anyone else to see me like this.”
Daintry turned, her temper perilously close to snapping, and said, “You will do as you are told. Keep your veils if you must, but you cannot stay here, for Papa has said you cannot. He means to send you back to Geoffrey, Susan. He will do nothing to help you. There, don’t cry. I don’t know why I am snapping at you, but I want to help and I cannot if you put foolish obstacles in my way. Annie knows you and loves you as much as we do, and she will do what she can. There is nothing else we can do. Nance will look after you now, and I will go tell Melissa what we have decided. Unless you would prefer to leave her here. Perhaps Geoffrey will not be so angry if—”
“No!” Susan sat bolt upright. “She mustn’t go back alone. It isn’t safe for her.”
“Merciful heavens,” Lady Ophelia exclaimed. “Does he beat the child, too?”
Susan shook her head but said, “He disciplines her, of course, when she is naughty, but it isn’t that. He … oh, I am speaking foolishly, I know, but it seems to me that he … oh, pay me no heed. I am merely being jealous, I suppose, and there has been nothing really, except…”
When her voice trailed away, Daintry looked at her in vexation and said, “I do wish you would speak plainly, Susan. What on earth are you trying to say?”
“Pay me no mind,” Susan said. “I don’t know why you must always behave as if you were the elder sister, Daintry. You make me forget your youth and inexperience. It’s nothing. I am upset, and I want Melissa to stay with me, that’s all.”
She moved to the washstand to bathe her face, and Daintry went to tell the two little girls what she could. When Charley assumed that she would accompany them to Warleggan Farm, Daintry said, “No, darling, that would not be wise. For a large group to descend upon poor Annie when she has not the least notion that anyone is going to visit her would be most impolite.”
“Pooh, Annie will not care if I am there, and Melissa will care very much if I am not. Won’t you, Melissa?”
Melissa turned her huge blue eyes toward Daintry. Tears sparkled on her lashes. Her lip trembled, but she said nothing.
Daintry sighed. “I suppose there will be room for you in the carriage if you do not mind being squeezed up with us on the forward seat so Aunt Susan and Aunt Ophelia can be comfortable.”
“In my opinion,” Charley said thoughtfully, “the carriage is not a good idea at all.”
“Then just how do you think we are going to transport your Aunt Susan to Warleggan Farm?”
Charley shot an oblique glance at Melissa, then said with seeming innocence, “I should think that a peaceful ride across the open moor would suit Aunt Susan much better than being rattled along in a carriage on the public road.”
Daintry drew breath to point out that Susan would certainly not wish to ride, but before she had said a word, she realized that Charley was afraid Seacourt would come after them on the road. If he did, he would catch them, even if he were not riding but driving his own rig. And Lady Ophelia could do more good by staying to deal with him at Tuscombe Park—if the chance arose for her to do so—than by going with them to Warleggan Farm.
So instead of snubbing Charley, she said quietly, “I will have to discuss that with Aunt Susan, darling, but perhaps you are right. I’ll leave you now, and trust that you will not leave the house. Have your supper, and get a good night’s rest.”
The evening would be the most dangerous time, she knew, for Geoffrey could arrive at any moment. As the hours passed, she grew more and more nervous, and could o
nly imagine that Susan’s nerves were in a worse state than her own. Neither of them went down to dinner, knowing it was best not to remind St. Merryn of Susan’s presence in the house, and when Daintry remembered belatedly that she had been ordered to stay in her room, she had their dinner served to them there. Lady Ophelia assured them that she would send a warning up at once if Seacourt arrived.
Once the two young women were alone together, Daintry tried to maintain a cheerful conversation, as much to keep her own mind off the probability of Geoffrey’s arrival as to distract Susan. But her sister was singularly uncooperative, remaining silent, unusually so, until finally Daintry’s patience snapped.
“Look here, Susan, I know you are upset, but you have no cause to behave as if I have offended you. I have already apologized for what happened at Mount Edgcumbe, though in truth it was not my fault that Geoffrey behaved like such a beast.”
“No. It is not that,” Susan said. Glancing at her, she looked away again.
“Well, don’t stop there,” Daintry said. “If it is not that, what is it? You look exactly like Melissa looks when she has let Charley drag her into some mischief or other. What is it?”
“I don’t know why you should instantly assume I had done something wrong,” Susan said, still staring into the distance.
“I did not assume it,” Daintry said, but her thoughts had taken another tangent, and although she told herself the notion was an absurd one, she could not help saying, “Was there something between you and Deverill at Mount Edgcumbe?”
Susan shook her head, but still she would not look at her.
“But there must have been something, even something very small, to make someone think he was—”
“No, how many times must I say it? There was nothing!”
“Then who would write such stuff to you, and why?”
Susan flushed to the roots of her hair, and bit her lip. After a long moment, she whispered, “No one.”
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