by Brenda Joyce
“This all began at Land’s End,” Blanche whispered, and heartache stabbed through her. “We were going to marry, Bess. I fell in love, and then this happened!”
Bess pulled away to stare at her in disbelief.
Her temples hurt all over again. Blanche held them tightly. “I want my old life back. I don’t want to feel anything. And I do not want to remember one more detail of that terrible day.”
Bess stroked her back. “Your remembering now is so strange. Yet oddly, I feel it is healthy. Let’s put that aside for one moment. Blanche, I have always hoped you would one day fall in love. I had a notion about Sir Rex.”
“You do not understand,” Blanche gasped, distraught. “With love and passion comes the pain I just lived through—again! Falling in love was a mistake. Look at what it is doing to me!”
Bess stared. “How can the two be related? Blanche, if you care for Sir Rex—”
“No! It is over!” she cried, meaning it. Panic began.
Grimly, Bess said, “There is a rumor in town that the two of you are engaged. I ran into the countess on Bond Street, and apparently Sir Rex wrote his brother to that effect.”
Her headache intensified. Blanche moaned. “I am going to remember more, I know it. Every time I feel happy or sad, a new memory sweeps in. I broke it off. I need peace, not passion! And Sir Rex now hates me—as he should!” she cried, trembling. “Bess, we must stop this conversation before I wind up on the floor in the midst of another fit.”
Bess paled. “How can a conversation cause such a fit?”
“I don’t know. But every little thing is a terrible threat—to my peace of mind!” she cried passionately.
“I have never seen you so passionate,” Bess said quietly, after a pause. “Or so emotional. It is a shock.”
“I do not wish to ever discuss him again.”
Bess stared for a moment. “And what makes you think you can avoid feeling, anyway, now that you are capable of tears and grief? The moment we began discussing him, you were undone.”
“I have to try,” Blanche cried uneasily.
Bess stared. “What are you really afraid of? Maybe you should face your memories. I can’t help thinking that if you did, you might find the peace of mind—and the happiness—you want.”
“Now you are the mad one,” Blanche snapped, furious. “For you have no idea what they did to my mother!”
Bess stiffened. “You are angry.”
“Yes, I bloody am! And if you don’t retreat, I am going to start recalling that damnable day!”
“All right. I will back down. But I am very uncertain that this plan of action is the right one.”
“Didn’t you see what the memories do to me?” Blanche cried. “They make me a child of six years old, in the midst of a London riot—they turn me into a madwoman.”
Bess was silent and grim. “How often have you had these fits?”
“Four or five times. In the beginning, there was only a recollection. Now, every time I recall a detail, I am thrust into the past.”
“Maybe you are right. Maybe recalling that day is a terrible idea.” She paused abruptly.
Blanche hugged herself. “What is it?”
Bess flushed. “I don’t want anyone, not your personal maid, not even Felicia, to ever see you the way I just did.” She then smiled, but grimly, and took Blanche’s hand. “No one will understand. You know the ton. It is not a tolerant place.”
“They will think me mad and the gossip will fly,” Blanche cried with nervous dread. “And the truth is, I am mad. Aren’t I?”
“No! You are not mad. But you’re right. This must be our secret.”
“Of course it is our secret,” Blanche said swiftly.
“Does he know what is happening?”
Blanche shook her head. “I fainted twice—I believe he thinks I am claustrophobic and that I do not eat enough to nourish myself.”
Bess said, “You need a physician. Someone we can trust to tell the truth. Someone who can prescribe some medication to help you through these fits. I will do some research. But until I can locate the right doctor, why don’t you take a dose of laudanum and sleep? You’ll feel better when you awaken, I am certain.” Bess smiled encouragingly. “You have been through so much in a week and a half! You must be exhausted and rest won’t hurt you.”
Blanche stared at her best friend.
Bess’s smile faded. “Why do I have a distinctly bad feeling about this?”
“I heard a physician once say that he doesn’t prescribe laudanum to women who are bearing children. He said a very unpopular study showed it disadvantageous for the unborn child.”
Bess was bewildered—and then her eyes widened in shock. “What are you saying?”
“There is a chance I could be with child,” Blanche cried. And the tears began all over again.
Bess gasped. “You and Sir Rex were lovers?”
“It was only one night—one very long and passionate night—oh, Bess! I pray I am with child!”
Bess stared grimly. Then, “Do you realize what you are saying?”
“Of course I do.”
“May I assume you will tell Sir Rex—and change your mind about marriage to him?”
Blanche stared back, her heart filling with fear and dread. “I can’t tell him…and I can’t marry him…because this will get worse.”
“Are you certain that your feelings for him are the cause of this?” Bess stood. “Although I don’t know him well, I am certain he would stand by you, even if he saw your fits, even if they recurred.”
Blanche leaped up. Her heart raced painfully now. “No one must ever see. He must never see me this way. And he deserves a sane wife—not a mad one! I had thought myself in control, but I am not. That has just been made obvious. I am not going to entertain at all if I can avoid it—and I am not going out unless I have no choice.”
“Oh, God,” Bess said.
“I can’t take any chances,” Blanche cried.
“Then you had better set your sights on one of your current suitors. Obviously you will have to marry, and soon, if you are carrying a child.”
Blanche twisted her hands. Even she knew she would be ostracized if she had a bastard child while unwed. She had been trying to avoid that dilemma, as she was hardly certain she was pregnant, anyway. But Bess was right. She would have to marry if it became certain that she was carrying Sir Rex’s child. “As long as this future husband is someone I do not care for, I can manage.” And she felt ill.
Tears finally came to Bess’s eyes. “Maybe this will pass. Maybe the memories will stop, and so will the fits. Maybe this has nothing to do with Sir Rex.”
“I cannot allow myself any emotion, much less love,” Blanche stressed.
Bess was grim. “Oh, God. Blanche, what will you do? How will you get on?”
“Don’t despair. I will manage, somehow.”
“LADY HARRINGTON? A Mr. Carter is here to see you.”
Blanche was in the library. She had removed her father’s large desk from the room, purchasing a smaller Portuguese-style desk for herself. Then she had rearranged the furniture, placing her new desk in a different place. She had decided to redecorate the library completely, beginning by changing the color scheme. Just that morning, she’d had all of the furniture draped with white linen covers and tomorrow she’d meet with an upholsterer and painter.
But her chest ached.
She was reading papers left for her by her agents. She could barely understand this last venture which her father had invested in. Apparently, however, the returns were excellent—to the sum of well over a thousand pounds per year. She would have to ask Geoffrey Williamson to explain exactly what this company did.
A week had passed since her arrival in town. Bess had kept her suitors at bay and they had avoided all discussion of both Sir Rex and the possibility that she was pregnant. Blanche had trodden very carefully, taking every carefree moment as a huge accomplishment. There had been no sorrow, no
anger, no sudden recollections and no fits. Instead, her attentions were focused on, in addition to the library, redecorating the Gold Room. And outside, her gardens were also being entirely redesigned.
With things going so well, yesterday Bess had asked her if she wished to finally entertain. Gossip was already raging. The ton wished to know why she had come home and secluded herself. Bess had reluctantly told her that everyone was speculating wildly. Some of the gossips seemed to think she was engaged to Sir Rex and preoccupied with her wedding; others felt she had a broken heart; while a few gossips merely insisted she had gone back into mourning. It was time to step forward and lay all gossip to rest.
Blanche laid her papers down. She noticed that her hands were trembling slightly. She dreaded the afternoon, but kept reminding herself that she was a hostess sans pareil. She was glad of another diversion. “I do not recall a Mr. Carter, Jem. He has no card?”
“My lady, he is a rough sort and I will be pleased to send him away.”
Blanche was bewildered. “Did he say what he wishes?”
“He said it is an urgent matter, pertaining to your holiday at Land’s End.”
Blanche went still while her heart leaped erratically. “Send him away,” she finally said. But she was almost desperate to know what Mr. Carter wanted.
Jem bowed and left. Blanche pulled another folder forward, this one pertaining to mundane estate affairs, such as the tenant farms on their manor in the middle of the country. She began to browse the report when Jem returned, appearing grim. Blanche was seized with a foreboding. “Jem?”
“He will not leave. He says you must see him and he will sit on our front doorstep until you do.”
Blanche stood, trembling. What could be so urgent? And Sir Rex’s dark, handsome and terribly unhappy image came to mind.
She had not allowed herself to think of him, but now, there was no choice. Was he hurt? Ill? Drinking excessively? She should not care—she must not care, but dear God, she did. And her temples throbbed for the first time in a week.
Blanche tensed, filled with absolute dread. “Did he say anything else?”
“Yes, my lady, he did. He said the matter is in regard to Sir Rex de Warenne.”
Blanche hugged herself. She did not want to lose her mind and thinking about Sir Rex—feeling anything for him—might cause her to do just that. But her worry knew no bounds. What if something was terribly wrong at Land’s End? “Send him in,” she whispered.
Jem nodded and hurried out.
Blanche went to the sterling tray on the low table before the dark green striped sofa and poured herself a cup of tea. She had recently discovered herbal teas, and unlike the Darjeeling tea she so preferred, it seemed to soothe her. Footsteps sounded and she turned to see Anne’s blacksmith standing on her threshold.
She started in surprise.
Carter held his wool cap in his hands and he smiled at her, inclining his head. “Thank you, my lady.”
Blanche couldn’t begin to imagine what the blacksmith’s call could mean. She went to the door, smiled at Jem and shut it firmly. “Mr. Carter, this is quite the surprise. Is Sir Rex all right?”
Carter smiled and it was sly. “I think so. Nothing seems to have changed up at the manor since you left.”
Dread clawed at her. Did he mean what she thought he meant? “Is Anne still employed there?”
“Yes, she is.”
Blanche felt ill. Had Sir Rex continued his affair? Or had she remained there as a convenience? She felt a terrible jealousy—and bitter dislike—and she was hurt and angry, too. The throbbing in her temples increased. In another hour Bess and Felicia would arrive and her doors would be opened to her callers. She had to find out what this man wanted, so she could send him away and rest.
“You seem distressed,” Carter said wryly.
Blanche did not like his tone. She glanced at him and saw satisfaction in his cold blue eyes. “If I am distressed, it is not your affair.”
“You are right—it is your affair—and that is why I am here.” He smiled. “To discuss your affair…with Sir Rex.”
Blanche went still. “I beg your pardon?”
“Come, Lady Harrington. I know you were enjoying Sir Rex’s bed on your little holiday—and I know you broke it off with him. Apparently you remain in the market for a husband. I can’t say I blame you for wishing a different one, maybe someone who’s not a drunken gimp.” He grinned.
Her fury blinded her. “How dare you refer to Sir Rex in such a disrespectful manner! He is a hundred times the man you are—and he is not a drunkard!” she cried, enraged.
“He’s in his cups every single night—or so Anne says.” He winked.
“Get out!” Blanche cried, so angry there was no hope of any control. And pain began stabbing into her skull.
“Get out!” Sir Rex roared.
Get out of the coach now, lady.
Mama, white with terror, clutching Blanche’s hand so hard it hurt.
Blanche cried out, refusing to go back to that day. “Get out,” she panted wildly.
He didn’t move. “I bet you don’t want your suitors to know you’ve been whoring for Sir Rex. I’ll keep my mouth shut—and so will Anne—as long as we are fairly compensated.”
It took Blanche a moment, as she was so furious. “What?”
“A hundred pounds—for each of us—and we are sworn to take your little dirty secret to our graves.” He grinned.
“You dare to blackmail me?” she cried.
“I do.”
Blanche was shaking wildly. She paced away then whirled. “Tell the world! I don’t care! I’m twenty-seven years old—twenty-eight in another month—and no one will blame me for my affairs!”
“Your new fiancé might.” His eyes had turned dangerously dark.
“Get out,” Blanche gasped, reeling from such an ugly confrontation.
“You’ll be sorry,” he snapped.
Blanche watched him heading for the door, that knife stabbing. She clasped her temples, fighting for control, her head now filling with memories. Sir Rex, enraged, ordering her to go; the monster, dragging Mama from the coach; the dead and bloody horse.
Anne knew.
Anne had seen her in the midst of a fit.
“Wait!” she cried.
Carter turned.
She did care about her private affairs being aired publicly, though not enough to pay Carter’s price. But what if he also revealed her most sordid secret—that she was slowly but surely going mad? He would go home to Anne and tell her Blanche had refused to pay them off. Anne would be hateful, vengeful. Anne would do whatever she could to hurt Blanche. She was certain. It would take Anne all of two minutes to start spreading the truth.
“Fine. Come back tomorrow and I will have your payment in coin.”
He smiled at her
SHE HAD DRUNK THREE CUPS of the calming tea and was surrounded by her admirers—or rather, the bucks and rogues who so cherished her fortune. Before that, Blanche had also spent a half an hour lying motionless in her bed, thinking not of the blackmail but of a stagnant pond, while imagining herself floating in it. She was floating now. She was perfectly calm. She knew she could get through this afternoon without a misstep.
“Your holiday in Cornwall suited you, Lady Harrington,” a very handsome tall, brown-haired young gentleman said, his blue eyes direct. Blanche tried to recall his name. He was the third son of an earl and penniless—and a reputed rake. Bess said, however, that otherwise he had no faults. He did not gamble and did not spend what he did not have. “You have never been as lovely.” He smiled, dimpling.
Blanche smiled back, recalling his name—James Montrose. She carefully looked at him—he was handsome and well built, tall but muscular, and now, she could imagine the body that lay beneath his clothes. He had no fat to spare on his frame. He probably spent a great deal of time on a horse. She was unmoved.
Not a single thread of desire arose. “I enjoyed my respite,” she said lightly.
“I had never been so far south before. It is actually lovely.”
“Have you been to the north—the far north?” He grinned. “My father has a hunting box in the Highlands. I would love to take you there.”
“I have never been farther north than Stirling,” she said, when she saw the countess of Adare entering her salon. Blanche froze. Lizzie was with her, and so was the countess’s stepdaughter, Eleanor O’Neill.
“Is something amiss?” Montrose asked, turning to follow her regard.
Did they assume her to be engaged? Bess had spent a week telling everyone that there had never been an engagement. Bess had told her she must insist the very same thing, otherwise, there would be questions, questions which might “upset” her. No one was asking questions now—and she was distressed.
Her temples throbbed.
Please, not now, she silently begged.
“Lady Harrington? Do you wish to sit down?” Montrose asked, sounding kind and concerned.
Instantly, Blanche knew he would not do. “I am fine. Lady Adare is here and I must greet her.” She smiled at him—or tried to—and ignored his suddenly piercing regard. She inhaled, gathered up her composure like a heavy wool cloak, and went forward. “Mary!”
Mary de Warenne beamed and embraced her. “I have been waiting for the day when you were receiving,” she exclaimed. “I almost sent you a note.”
Blanche tried to smile at her, aware of her wildly pounding heart. Could Mary possibly think her engaged to her son? She turned and hugged Lizzie. “How are you, Lizzie?”
“I am fine—but perhaps not as fine as you.” Lizzie also beamed.
Blanche could not summon up another smile as she faced Eleanor, a tall, statuesque honey blonde with amber eyes. “I hadn’t realized you had come to town, my dear. How are you? How is Sean? How are the boys?”
“Sean is fine—and so are the boys.” Eleanor clasped her hands. “Are you engaged to my brother or not?” she asked excitedly.
Blanche stared at her, overcome with so much heartbreak she could not bear it.
Still holding her hands, Eleanor cried, “Rex wrote Ty and said you are engaged. Is it a secret? When is he coming to town? What happened! You must be in love—otherwise, you could not snare my brooding brother!”