Virtue and Vice
Kimberly Brody
Published by Kimberly Brody, 2015
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
VIRTUE AND VICE
First Edition. July 7th 2015.
Copyright © 2015 Kimberly Brody.
Written by Kimberly Brody
Cover created by Jenny Quinlan
Dedication
To Ian, my modern day hero, who slays spiders and
keeps me supplied in danishes, always with unflagging love and
support. To Cara, for an enduring friendship that
has no equal and will remain unparalleled forever.
To Kate, for tireless hours of
brainstorming and countless critiques through the
years.
And for Whiskey, the love of my life. You always
were and always will be my greatest muse. I miss you
every single day.
Chapter 1
Cornwall, England 1661
Whoosh!
As the sound whistled through the air, Isabelle Beaumont grimaced and braced for the imminent blow. When switch met skin through only a thin layer of silk, it stung more than she could ever imagine. Fire leapt at the point of contact, coursing along shocked nerves. Her breath escaped with a hiss through gritted teeth.
Whoosh!
The second blow landed with less mercy than the first against the tender flesh of her barely clad posterior. Her fingers clenched white-knuckled around the wooden leg of the footstool over which she knelt. Tears rose in her eyes. She clamped them shut to keep the betraying moisture from leaking out.
Whoosh!
A sob resonated through the room and she feared it might have slipped from her own lips. But the sound came from her mother, who stood at her father’s side mere feet away, watching as the ordered punishment was meted out.
“Isabelle! For God’s sake, please be a good daughter and submit!” Her mother’s harsh cry hurt even more than the switch, but Izzy would not acquiesce. Not on this matter. How could she?
Whoosh!
The fourth blow didn’t sting nearly as much as the previous three. Perhaps because her flesh had begun to go numb. She fixed her gaze beyond her parents, on the large desk at the opposite end of the dark paneled study, trying to refocus her attention on anything other than the pain.
“Enough!” Her father commanded.
Relief shuddered through Izzy. She glanced at her father’s haggard face. I outlasted him!
With a curt nod he dismissed the Vicar’s hefty wife, who’d been summoned to administer the discipline he had not been able to bring himself to deliver. Izzy almost wished it had been Papa who’d served the punishment. Despite his burly size, he probably would have gone easier on her than had Prudence Smith, who seemed content to carry on wielding the switch, and even now muttered something under her breath about ‘sparing the rod’.
Izzy’s mother ran to her side, stroked her face with trembling fingers and hurried to lower the rumpled damask gown back over Izzy’s chemise.
Dizzy with pain, relief, and the released tension of fear, Izzy stumbled to her feet, allowing herself to lean on her mother and be led to a dark blue velvet covered sofa. As she sat her abused flesh screamed in protest, but she bit her lip and did so anyway. She couldn’t let Papa see her falter now.
Gerald Beaumont waited until Mrs. Smith had been escorted from his study before he spoke. “Why must you be so stubborn, Isabelle?”
She snuck a look at her father’s face, noting his expression drawn with both anger and regret. He hated disciplining her as much as she hated being disciplined. Well, mayhap not quite as much as she hated it. But she’d called his bluff when he’d threatened the switch, and he in turn had been forced to send for Mrs. Smith, whose eager appearance at his summons was no doubt spurred by memories of a cooling apple pie long ago stolen from her windowsill. Who would have ever guessed that a dare issued to Izzy by her brothers would have such dire consequences so many years later?
“Nothing has changed, Papa. I will not marry him.” Izzy raised her chin and met her father’s stern gaze as she picked up their conversation from where they’d stopped when Papa thought that perhaps the switch might gain her cooperation. It wouldn’t. It couldn’t.
“You will do your duty and do as I say.” He shook his head in consternation. “My God, I allowed you too much freedom in your youth. Now you think you can defy me on this.”
She may have gotten her blue eyes, chestnut curls, and diminutive height from her petite mother, but Izzy’s iron will came straight from her father, a fact Papa had oft lamented, usually with affection in his voice. He tended to turn a blind eye to her mischief or violation of his dictates, but on this matter it was proving impossible to move him.
“I will not marry a man I do not love and cannot respect. I’m in love with Paul. If I can’t marry him I shan’t wed at all!”
“Love has little bearing on marriage, and you well know it.” Her father’s expression softened. “You’re too young to know real love, Izzy. Paul will not return for you. He’s not the man you think he is.”
“He said he would come for me, Papa. If you would only wait, you’ll see he will come to marry me. He told me so!” Shifting with frustration at her father’s failure to understand her perspective, she winced as the cushion rubbed against her sore backside.
“I’ve given Huntley three years to come for you, despite the fact that a match with him would gain this family nothing. But now an opportunity has arisen that will restore some of our fortunes and I will take it. You’ve an obligation to this family. Paul is not a reasonable choice. His family is in worse financial straits than ours!” He ground one fist into his other hand, a sure sign of his growing frustration.
Her own irritation flared. “Why can’t one of my brothers make a good match to bring in the funds you so desperately need? Why must I be the one to go to the auction block? Why must I be the sacrificial lamb?”
Anger flashed in her father’s brown eyes. “Your brothers spilt their blood on the battlefield fighting with Charles. They’ve made their sacrifices. Now you will make yours!”
“And so I must spill my blood as well?”
“Your blood?” Papa looked perplexed.
“My virgin blood! Isn’t that what the Earl is paying for?”
Papa rolled his eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic, Izzy, it isn’t becoming.”
It took every bit of will power she possessed not to stamp her foot in frustration. “Nothing about this travesty is becoming. Why can’t you see that? You would marry me to a Parliamentarian, to a man who supported Cromwell, to a roundhead!” She spat the words and turned away, unable to stop the rise of tears. All her life she’d been reared to believe Charles Stuart was the rightful heir to the throne of England. Her family had gone into exile for their fallen monarch, had given their money, their lands, their very blood to see him restored to his proper place as King of England. To consider marrying one whom, until recently, had been considered an enemy was anathema.
“If the King can grant pardon to those who fought for Cromwell against his father, then you can find it in your heart to accept the past and move on.” He heaved an exasperated sigh, then paced before his heavy maple desk. “This man is a viscount, the only son of the Earl, and destined to one day be a powerful earl himself. Think of it! I’m offering to make you a viscountess! But even more importantly, Chesworth holds property that once belonged to this family!”
“Then Charles will restore it to you, as he did Rendstell Manor.” She glanced about at the beloved timber framed Tudor house, remembering the immense relief of the day the King had summoned them home for the
first time in nine long years.
“Nay, Izzy. The King restored only those properties illegally seized by Cromwell during the war. I outright sold our land to Chesworth for the funds we so desperately needed, assuming he would want to hold the land adjacent to his own. He’s under no obligation to return it, yet has agreed to do just that and pay additional funds if you but marry his son. They sided with Cromwell and are desperate to marry into a family in such high standing with the king.”
“What you propose I do is no better than what Buckingham did!” George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, had once been King Charles’ closest friend. After years of poverty-stricken exile on the continent with his monarch, he’d snuck back into England and married the daughter of the man who’d received Villier’s confiscated estates, thus recovering what he’d lost for the King’s cause. What he’d done was despicable.
“Charles does not begrudge him for what he did. It was the expedient thing for Buckingham to do. It is expedient for you to marry and regain our land. If our monarch can be reasonable, so then, can you. And here I am, offering you a man who will one day make you a countess.”
“I care not for his pedigree.” She lifted her chin, hoping he wouldn’t see it tremble. “I won’t marry him, Papa.”
“Please Izzy, do not make me say the words I shall speak next. It is the last thing in the world I wish to say to you!”
“Nothing you say will make me change my mind. I’ll not have the roundhead, Papa!”
Her father’s face hardened and instant tension filled the room. “I have been lenient with you these years past, but on this I will not tolerate disobedience. If you do not marry him, Isabelle, you’ll no longer be my daughter.”
Pain flashed across her father’s face as he uttered the terrible words, but it didn’t soothe the stab of betrayal that lanced her heart. Beside her, her mother gasped and grabbed Izzy’s hand, squeezing it. “Please, Isabelle?” she whispered.
With those words, Papa had effectively trapped her, after all. If she stood by her principles, she might lose her family. Her stomach clenched at the very idea. But could she give up everything she believed in, abandon the man she loved, and marry this traitor for the sake of family harmony?
What choice did she have? Icy panic clenched its fingers around her heart.
She glanced at the thin fingers entwined so tightly with her own. Her mother would be distraught if Papa disowned her, and so would Izzy. And what about Papa? He’d spent his life taking care of them all. She studied his haggard expression again. He’d aged so much in the last decade; his once dark head of hair was now liberally shot through with gray. The threat of disowning her devastated him. Could she bring more grief to him after everything else?
Her vision blurred as tears gathered anew. She loved her family with all her heart. Where would she go if Papa disowned her? How long before Paul returned to honor his promise? One of her brothers would take her in, she was sure of it. But her brothers had fought hard for the Stuart cause, and they deserved the privileges that might be bought with the monies a union with Chesworth would provide. This marriage would preserve their legacies. Could she be so selfish and deny her family so much?
But where did that leave her? Forced to give up the only man she’d ever loved, faced with the prospect of a bleak future trapped in a loveless marriage, that’s where!
Anger warred with her sense of duty. It was a cruel thing to bear, when she’d always thought the choice of husband would be hers alone. Yet in the end, there was no other decision to be made. She would sacrifice her happiness for the sake of her family.
Her submission did not mean she would do so quietly, nor would she cease to try to find a way out of her predicament.
Gathering what shreds of dignity remained after the day’s punishment, she faced her father. “I will marry the roundhead,” she spat the word as though it were venom lodged in her throat. “But I shall never forgive you for this, Papa. Never.”
***
Piss poor couldn’t even begin to describe Ramsay Maitland’s mood. Dusty and dirty from the road, he glared with impatience into the dim stable. The stamping and snorting of the horses housed within was all quite normal. The absence of a groom was not.
With a muttered curse he saw to his horse himself, his disposition no sunnier for the exertion after the long and tiring journey from London. After finishing the task he marched toward the magnificent red-bricked Tudor manor house in which he’d grown up, determined to discover why there was no one to look after his horse. The absence of staff was unusual, as the Earl had always been a stickler for propriety and quick to lecture on the importance of duty. A subject which, Ram observed with a grim frown, he’d been instructed at great length of late.
Damn Father’s meddling in my private affairs!
Why he’d ever allowed his father to talk Ram into agreeing to a betrothal that caused every one of his nerve endings to stand on end, he’d never understand. It didn’t matter he was Viscount Royston, a grown man past thirty years, or that he had long ago surpassed his father in height. The Earl of Chesworth still had a presence that commanded obedience, and an irritating ability to make Ram feel like a boy of six years old. He was a bloody fool for agreeing to his father’s madcap scheme.
His throat tightened and his stomach churned, as happened each time in the month since the betrothal contract was signed and he allowed his thoughts to wander towards his impending nuptials. While he’d been in London, his mistress had tried her damnedest to distract him with her bountiful charms in her boudoir, with little success.
Frustration had led him back to Cornwall, if only to sneak a peek at his bride-to-be. If he was to have any peace of mind for the next month, he needed to put his deepest fears to rest. His father claimed his betrothed was rumored to be a great beauty, but what beautiful woman remained unmarried at the advanced age of two and twenty? Of course, it was not just her looks that alarmed him. Many a man married a plain woman to advance his position. But this particular woman had spent a good portion of her life in exile, with the current monarch’s courtiers, and their immorality was well known. It was his betrothed’s character that truly worried him. His need to see her grew with every passing day as the wedding fast approached.
The wet crunch of the mud-laden gravel beneath his leather boots ended as he strode up the stone steps that led to the massive wooden entrance. His father’s butler opened the door and peered at him as if he were a stranger. At least Hawthorne’s predictability brought a small smile to Ram’s face.
“Where the bloody hell is everybody, Hawthorne?” He stepped past the butler and into the dim foyer beyond. “There are no grooms in the stable. My father would have their heads if he knew.” He noticed the empty place against the wall at the base of the staircase. “And where are the footmen?”
“Apparently you’ve spent far too much time enjoying the frivolities of London, my lord.” Hawthorne sniffed with disdain. “Today is the first of May. Do they not celebrate such a rustic holiday in our great capital city?”
Ram grinned. It had forever miffed the staid Hawthorne that the Earl kept another butler in his London household, forcing Hawthorne to remain in perpetuity in the country. “Surely you wouldn’t want to be in the congested and polluted city when you have the grandeur of the Cornish countryside at your disposal?”
The butler made a sound that suspiciously resembled a snort, his stiff frame straightening beneath his Chesworth livery. “I’ll find a boy and send him out to see to your horse, my lord.”
“No need to pull anyone away from the festivity, I’ve already seen to it.”
How could he have forgotten? May Day celebrations were a staple from his youth, yet many had been the years since he’d even contemplated the holiday. Cromwell had forbidden such practices, nationwide, more than a decade ago due to the heathen roots of the festival. It was an ancient fertility celebration, said to hearken back to the days of the Romans, a reminder of the time when Pagans had inhabite
d the land. Always a bloody fun day.
“Is my father in his study?”
The silver-haired butler shook his head and gave a discreet cough. “Nay, my lord. He’s in Bodmin.”
Bodmin. Of course. With his mistress. It was almost as if his father knew he’d return from London today, armed with new arguments against this betrothal, and so he’d gone to ground to avoid a confrontation. Ram’s mood deteriorated further.
“May I get you some refreshments, my lord?”
“Thank you, but nay.” He peered closer at the butler. “No desire to dance around the maypole today, Hawthorne?”
The man came close to a laugh before he caught himself. “My missus would have my head, sir.”
Ram chuckled. As a lad, he’d always enjoyed the sheer revelry of the holiday; girls and boys dancing around the may pole in merry abandonment as the May Queen looked on from her lofty throne. And then, later, when the moon was high and the children abed, men and women would mate with wild abandon; behind a bush, in the stables, against a wall. It had never been hard to find female companionship amongst the villagers during the celebrations. In fact, he and his friends had wagered each year over who would be the seducer of the May Queen into his bed.
“You make a fine point, my friend. Wives can be quite shrewish about such things, can’t they? Perhaps I should take my last opportunity as a bachelor to engage in a bit of debauchery.”
Hawthorne grinned. “If your father happens to ask upon his return, I’ve not seen you.”
Ram smiled at his co-conspirator. “You’re a good man, Hawthorne.” His mood lifted. It had been a while since he had engaged in a celebration of any kind. Unexpected excitement coursed through him at the thought of joining in the merriment. His betrothed could wait; he would investigate her on the morrow. Today he would enjoy himself to the fullest.
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