Kindred Spirits

by Allison Lane

“You must. I can guess at much of it, for I was there. I know what happened to travelers caught in France when the peace collapsed. I had to fight off the soldiers sent to arrest me in Paris. And I heard the words that form your screams when nightmare strikes.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “They are not true screams, you know. They are words – parroted French – repeated so rapidly that they sound like screaming. Baisez la putain anglaise.” He stripped the words of inflection, rendering them impotent. Yet she blanched. “You were caught by a mob, weren’t you?”

  Her mouth worked, but nothing emerged.

  “Did they rape you?”

  Her head jerked in shock. “N-n-no.”

  “Then it could have been worse.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “They raped your mother, though, didn’t they?” He kept his voice matter-of-fact.

  “Sh-she was sick. My fault. All my fault.”

  “No!” Leaning forward, he tipped her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “It was not your fault.”

  “But it was!” Tears smudged her eyes. “I contracted an ague in Paris – I’d run off in the rain after being told to stay indoors. I was always a disobedient child. Mama nursed me for days, insisting that we delay our departure until I was well. We hadn’t been on the road two hours before she fell ill. By afternoon, she was too sick to continue.” Her teeth chattered. “The next day, Cecily fell sick, then Hutch – our governess – and Nigel. Everyone was furious with me for causing such trouble. I always caused trouble, you see.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said soothingly. “Agues were common that year, for it had been a wet winter and cool spring. I swear half of Paris was sick. I had a touch of it myself.”

  She shrugged. “Papa was furious. I heard him arguing with Mama the third day, insisting that she pull herself together and finish the journey. She refused, calling him tyrant and worse for ignoring her distress. I wonder if he knew what was coming.”

  “Perhaps. A scholar would be more aware of possibilities than others might be. And he must have heard the news by then.”

  Marianne twisted her hands together. “Mama was so fretful that day. I was reading in her room, but even the noise of turning pages bothered her. She finally ordered Francine to take me for a walk so she could rest. We were gone when the men arrived.”

  She paused as if steeling herself to continue. Jack remained silent. He knew what was coming, and it wouldn’t be arrest – her nightmare words made that plain enough. But he could not spare her this recital. She had to remember everything, then set aside her guilt if she hoped to recover.

  “We were coming around the stable when two men dragged Mama into the yard. Others followed. Francine recognized what was happening – a similar mob had killed her father. She whisked me into the stable and up into the loft, covering me with hay in case anyone came up there. No one did. The stable boys were in the yard, sh-sharing in the fun.” She choked.

  Jack drew her into his lap, holding her while she cried.

  “I c-couldn’t see, but nothing muffled the sound. Everyone was outside. Papa. Mama. Nigel. Cecily. She was only eight, but they r-raped her and forced Papa to watch.” Tears soaked his jacket. “Hutch was there, too, and poor John Coachman. Ted. Rob. And Papa’s valet. I don’t recall his name.”

  “Shhh, Marianne. You are safe.” He stroked her cheek. “Did they torture the men?” He knew they had.

  She nodded against his chest. “They goaded each other to new atrocities. My French wasn’t good enough to understand everything—”

  “Thank God!”

  “—but it was obvious that they were daring each other to prove – what? Manhood?” She shivered. “By midnight, they had passed out from drink, so Francine and I crept out. We t-tripped over Mama in the stable yard.”

  “That’s enough.” He recalled the scene all too well. It was the second he’d seen – and by far the worst. The brutality had turned his stomach. The corpses had been at least a day old by then, but men still slipped out of the taproom to add new desecrations.

  “I’ve seen similar incidents,” he continued, refusing to admit that he had also seen hers. “Your impressions were right. The men were probably strangers, met on the road as they answered the call to arms. They would have already boasted of what they would do to France’s enemies, so then they had to prove it. War can turn men into beasts. I am thankful that it did not touch English soil.” He shuddered, recalling the sack of Badajoz. “But you cannot let a few drunken fools destroy your life. You will always grieve for those you lost, but you should also rejoice that you survived. And no matter how much pain your family suffered in that stable yard, it would have been worse if they had been arrested. Too many were mistreated for eleven years before finally achieving their freedom.”

  She seemed not to have heard him. “It would have been better if I had died, too.”

  “No. You are strong, Marianne. The attack left you feeling helpless, and terror increased that helplessness, but it has not defeated you. It is time to set it aside once and for all.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can.” He thrilled when her arms moved around his waist, though he knew she sought protection rather than passion. “You must,” he added firmly. “If you remain in thrall to the fears of that night, then those men will have harmed you even more than the others. Will you hand them that victory?”

  “Victory?” She straightened to look him in the eye.

  “Exactly. Wittingly or not, they waged war on you, assailing your senses, stealing your confidence, laying siege to your reason. Will you let them win, or will you fight back by proving that you can live a full life?”

  “It seems impossible.” But uncertainty had crept into her voice.

  “It is not. You are a lady, Marianne, far superior to cowardly cads who attack unarmed men, women, and children. You are strong. And with a little effort, that strength can build the confidence that will set the past truly behind you.”

  She laughed – bitterly.

  “Truth. If not for your innate strength, they would already have won. And they may yet. If you allow Barnett to confiscate your inheritance and lock you up, then you will have given that mob of cowardly fools the ultimate victory.”

  “My God!”

  “Exactly. You must honor your father’s memory by seeing that his last wishes are carried out. But to protect your inheritance and remain free, you must prove your sanity to a judge. You will have to walk into a courtroom, endure questioning by men you have never seen before, and perhaps even allow them to touch you.”

  She shuddered.

  “I only mention it so you know what is coming. Are we agreed?”

  She nodded, stiffening her shoulders. “But how will I manage?”

  “One step at a time. We will start with something simple. Barnett will know if I summon your servants, so you will have to use one of Devall’s. And since you lack even the rudiments of a wardrobe, you must borrow clothes from Angela for a few days.”

  “Angela?”

  “Devall’s wife, Lady Blackthorn. You will meet her soon. She is every bit the angel that her name implies. If you trust yourself, you will become good friends. Her husband is equally angelic, though that is not the impression one draws at first meeting.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “His looks have been described as satanic, brutal, and cold, and those are just the repeatable words. He is tall, with black hair, nearly black eyes, and brows that rise to incredible peaks. Even his name sounds devilish – Devall. When he scowls, he could pass for Beelzebub himself.”

  “I can’t face him, then.”

  “You can. He has spent his life rescuing people from brutality and oppression, often sacrificing his reputation in the process. You will not find a kinder man in England, nor a better champion, so bear that in mind when I introduce you. You can trust him with your life.”

  She stifled a shudder by stiffening her shoulders. “I
will try.”

  “Excellent.” He set her on the bed, passed her his handkerchief, and stepped back. Her eyes were red from crying, but already she seemed calmer. “Angela loaned you a dressing gown. There is also a morning gown on that chair, but the fastenings are complicated and require the services of a maid. I will be in the hall. Let me know if you wish a maid. Once you are dressed, I can order a breakfast tray or accompany you to the breakfast room.”

  “I will think about it.”

  Hoping she would find the courage to face the breakfast room, he left. Time was fleeing. She needed to meet Devall and Angela today if they had any hope of winning in court. Barnett must bring his case to trial within the week.

  Chapter Nine

  As Jack left her bedchamber, Marianne bit her tongue so she couldn’t call him back. She did not want to be alone. But he was right. Time was precious. She had to dress, eat, and face the day. And within the week, she must face a judge and prove that her wits were intact despite Carey’s medical opinion. If only she’d spent as much time fighting Barnett’s perceptions as she’d spent learning estate management…

  Swallowing hard, she climbed down from the bed to examine her borrowed clothes. Dressing gown or morning gown? She wanted desperately to choose the dressing gown, order a tray, and spend a few hours regaining her composure. But such cowardice would play into Barnett’s hands.

  Again, Jack was right. She had chosen the easy course twelve years ago – the lazy course. Avoiding people might have seemed the best way to mitigate her fears and protect her from harm, but it had prevented her from living. And in the end, she had failed, for harm had found her anyway. Now her weakness could be used against her.

  Imagining a judge and jury raised new terrors, but she thrust them aside. That was tomorrow’s problem. Today she must hold herself together long enough to meet Lord and Lady Blackthorn.

  Fifteen minutes later, she nearly changed her mind. Going down to breakfast meant donning Lady Blackthorn’s complicated gown. Even leaving off the stays – a garment she had never worn – she couldn’t dress without help. The ties were in the back, and pins anchored the shoulders – odd, curly pins she wasn’t sure how to fasten.

  Her own clothes were simple round gowns with drawstrings at the neck and bodice. She’d designed them so the drawstrings tied in the front, allowing her to dress without assistance. It had been easy to modify her mother’s gowns to fit her. They had been Grecian – simple muslins draped over a minimum of underclothes. Judging from this gown, fashion had become more elaborate.

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered as she twisted, trying to reach a tie. She’d thought that if she could fasten the basics, Jack could do the rest. After curling in his arms while she bared her soul, she could surely remain calm while he fastened a few pins.

  But she couldn’t reach the ties.

  If you can’t deal with a maid, how do you expect to meet your hostess? demanded Hutch.

  “Jack promised that the Blackthorns were trustworthy.”

  Yet their servants aren’t?

  She cursed. Her fears were ridiculous. Did she honestly think a servant would slit her throat or brand her with burning coals? This wasn’t France.

  “Jack?” she called, opening the door a crack.

  “Yes?” He stood outside as if on sentry duty.

  “Can you summon a maid?” Her voice shook.

  “Immediately.” He signaled a footman at the end of the hall.

  Relief washed over her. Jack was not going to leave her unprotected for an instant. She thanked him, then practiced deep breathing until the maid arrived.

  Expecting a stern harridan, she was surprised to see a cheerful girl of fifteen. Marianne barely had time to wonder if Jack had chosen her, before chatter diverted her attention.

  “I’m Daisy, Miss Barnett. It’s wonderful, it is, to see you recovered. Lady Blackthorn asked me to look after you, but she wasn’t sure when you would feel well enough to rise.”

  “Is she up, then?” It couldn’t be much past eight. “I hope I haven’t disrupted the household.”

  “Oh, no. Her ladyship keeps country hours at Wyndhaven, though I’ve heard tell she sleeps as late as any in town. But here, she’s up with the sun.”

  “What is she like? I’ve never met her.”

  Daisy hesitated. “I’ve only been in service for a year,” she admitted, “so I don’t know the lady well. But she keeps a close eye on the staff. Knows our names and families. Shows appreciation for our work. My cousin Kate is at Dobson Grange, and her mistress is quite different. Looks right through the staff without seeing them, never has a kind word about anything, and turns off anyone who displeases her, no matter how minor the fault.”

  “Which probably makes it difficult for your cousin to care about her position.”

  “A truer word I’ve never heard.” Daisy pinned a tuck in the bodice to improve the fit – Lady Blackthorn had a more generous bosom. “Kate swears she’s going to next month’s hiring fair.”

  “I wish her luck.” Marianne wondered if Jack needed any servants, but the thought fled when Daisy’s hand brushed her neck. Only biting her tongue stopped a scream.

  The girl continued to chatter as she pinned and tucked, but Marianne no longer heard the words. Not until Daisy stepped back, head tilted as she studied the gown, did Marianne relax.

  “That should do for now, miss. If your own clothes don’t arrive today, I will take up that hem so it don’t brush your feet. This year’s fashion bares the ankle.”

  Heat washed Marianne’s face. She could hardly alter Lady Blackthorn’s gown, yet she had nothing else to wear. There was no sign of her own clothes – considering yesterday’s illness, that was hardly surprising. If Jack was wary of sending for her servants, he would be even less willing to fetch her wardrobe.

  But that was for later. She had survived Daisy’s touch without drawing attention to her problems. It might seem a small matter, but it was more than she’d thought possible.

  Jack’s voice echoed. A little effort will build the confidence to put the past truly behind you.

  He was right. Her fears were mostly habit. The prospect of being locked in an asylum staffed by rapists made most of them fade into insignificance. She would conquer the rest and convince a judge of her sanity. Only thus could she honor her family.

  “Shall I do something less severe with your hair?” asked Daisy. Marianne had pulled it into a knot low on her neck.

  “Perhaps tomorrow. For now, I need some food.” She had not eaten since breakfast yesterday, and she’d lost much of that.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she opened the door and took Jack’s arm.

  * * * *

  Jack kept one eye on Marianne as he escorted her to the breakfast room. She was pale – even more than when they’d spoken earlier – but she seemed calm. Her minutes with the maid had actually steadied her.

  Tension seeped away. He hadn’t realized how fearful he’d been. Urging her to call on a villager she’d liked as a child was one thing. But taking her to a strange house and thrusting her amid people she’d never met… His actions could have hurt her beyond redemption.

  So far that hadn’t happened, but they’d chosen Daisy because her cheerfulness and youth made her nonthreatening. The next step would be harder.

  “Ready?” he murmured, pausing with his hand on the breakfast room door – the footman had been sent away this morning.

  Marianne nodded, though fear flashed through her eyes.

  “You will like Angela,” he added. “She is not the least bit haughty – Lady Barnett’s opposite in every way.” He opened the door.

  Angela was alone, by design. She jumped up when they appeared, hugged Jack in greeting, then motioned them to the table and served loaded plates that had been kept warm above steaming water. By the time she resumed her seat, Marianne had relaxed.

  So had Jack. Each new hurdle was as much an ordeal for him as for her. Though instinct had sent him to Wyndhave
n, he no longer trusted it, for even his intuition was tainted by bad blood and could be led astray. But this time he’d been right. Angela was a perfect mentor for Marianne.

  Which was good, for another problem loomed large. His eyes were so heavy with fatigue that he could barely keep them open.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Blackthorn,” said Marianne softly. “I can’t think it is easy to have a stranger arrive without warning.”

  “Nonsense. Two guests are no trouble at all. Besides, I would do anything for Jack. He supported me when everyone in society turned their backs.”

  “Fustian!” snorted Jack. “I did nothing but dance with you a few times. Devall’s investigation and your own angelic character turned the tide.”

  “Not fustian. Who was it who rallied so many officers to my defense? Who convinced Brummell to support me? And who turned his influence to redeeming Dev’s reputation?”

  “What happened?” Marianne’s voice was stronger.

  “My mother,” said Angela shortly. “When I came out two years ago, she tried to force me into a match with a brutal madman – who happened to be wealthy, titled, and loved by all.”

  “Society loves brutality?”

  Jack scowled at Angela. Atwater’s face had fooled many, which was not a subject Marianne was ready to handle.

  Angela ignored him. “Few looked past his pretty face until I turned him down. He nearly drove me from town, but Jack and Dev exposed him as a scoundrel, saving my reputation and teaching the London gossips a lesson. Jack is very good at such campaigns.”

  Jack’s face heated. “I’m no saint, Angela. They would have reached the same conclusion without me. Besides, that is ancient history.” He deliberately changed the subject. “Marianne asked me about Locke’s treatise on the effect of agricultural reform on the tenant class. I haven’t had time to read it, but I’m sure you have.”

  The ploy worked. Angela had indeed read the paper – she and Marianne were much alike. Both had unusually broad educations. Both had spent years secluded in the country. And they were the same age.

  The discussion grew spirited as it moved to other topics. Jack relaxed as Marianne forgot her nervousness in the joy of finding someone as well-read as she. Her eyes were bluer than he’d ever seen them, and though she didn’t yet smile, she willingly debated the merits of Peacock’s most recent novel A Headlong Hall. It was like watching a flower unfurl for its first day in the sun.