The Deepest Well

by Juliette Cross

  “Why did you marry him?”

  He kept himself at a distance. Katherine closed the gap with a few steps, removing the cloth from her cheek. He held himself with rigid control.

  “My father worried that I would never marry. He would often tease me for being too spirited, too independent. I suppose that is the result when a single father raises a daughter.”

  She paused, wondering with sadness where that woman had gone. Being married to a monster for nearly two years had killed that part of her day by day. George did not move, did not flinch. He simply watched and waited with undying patience.

  “When my father took ill, we knew he would not make the year. I had met Clyde among the ton that Season. He was…charming, entertaining, attentive. My father enjoyed his company. And so did I. When Father no longer left his bed, Clyde promised my father he would take care of me and that Father would not have to worry about my welfare. Clyde convinced him of that. Then he convinced me. We were married before Father died. It was I who rushed the wedding through, asking Clyde to procure a special license so that it might be done in haste. I was in earnest, you see. To prove to Father that I was well taken care of. Before he was gone.”

  Katherine did not realize she was crying until George broke his rigid stance and stepped forward, wiping the tear that slipped down the unmarked cheek.

  “I wanted my father to die in peace, knowing I was happy and well-cared for.”

  He slid his fingers into the edge of her hair, his palm against her cheek, holding her with tender care. The gentleness of his touch only made more tears well and fall. She closed her eyes, wondering what life would be like with this man at her side, rather than Clyde.

  “So I was not forced into marriage. If you’re looking for someone to blame for my abominable situation, blame me.”

  “Blame you. For what? For loving a father so dearly you were willing to sacrifice your happiness to ensure he would go into the afterlife with joy in his heart? I could never blame you for such a thing.” She met his gaze, transfixed by the man who touched her as if she were precious. “You are a lovely, brilliant, strong woman, Katherine. You deserve happiness all the days of your life. Do not let anyone convince you otherwise.”

  He dropped his hand and stepped toward the door, gesturing to her chair at the vanity.

  “Use that to bar the door tonight.” He stopped at the entryway and fixed her with an intent expression. “Every night.”

  Then he was gone, leaving her stunned and shocked and utterly, completely, hopelessly smitten.

  Chapter Seven

  Katherine considered sending Maggie down to report to Edmund, and thus to her husband, that she was ill and would stay in bed for the morning. But ever since Lord Thornton had stepped into her life, she had begun to remember her old self—the Katherine who rode astride down Rotten Row despite the gawking onlookers; the young woman who laughed too loud and too long without a care in the world; the girl who was her father’s princess and held her head high wherever she went. That girl would never cower from a man who had wronged her.

  The one particular point that had been agonizing her since dawn broke through her window was what Clyde would remember of the night before. He had most certainly been inebriated, but who would he think had grabbed him, then punched him twice in the gut and once across the jaw? She was shocked he hadn’t come to her sooner and demanded answers. Or would he actually be ashamed of his behavior and assume Edmund had stepped in on her behalf? After all, Edmund had been with her family for nearly two decades. And although he was surely in his fifties, he was no weak, frail man by any stretch of the imagination.

  She groomed herself at the washing table, remembering how George had used this cloth last night to tend to her bruised cheek.

  “George.”

  She smiled. She liked saying his name. Very much. It was a strange intimacy to use a man’s Christian name, especially when she would not dare do such a thing in public. It was like having a wonderful secret.

  She pulled her chair from where she’d lodged it under the doorknob, as directed by George, then sat and inspected her cheek more closely. Not as bad as she thought. With a little powder and by coiffing her hair just right, it was hardly noticeable at all.

  By the time Maggie came in and helped her into her favorite day dress—pale green with white flowers—she was more than ready to face her husband. As she descended the stairs, she had half convinced herself that he would still be sleeping off the drink anyway. But she was mistaken.

  He sat at his place at the head of the table, a proud position her father had once held. She took her seat on the opposite end, as far away from him as possible. While her father lived, she had sat directly to his right for every meal. But her world had been different then.

  Clyde did not greet her with a saucy hello or remark as he was wont to do. He simply watched her take her place and took a bite of sausage. The footman served her a slice of plum cake, knowing this was her favorite.

  “Best keep your door unlocked, wife.”

  “Pardon?” Her fork rattled against the china.

  Katherine froze as Clyde continued to shovel food into his mouth. He gulped down his tea and wiped his mouth.

  “I found your door locked last night.”

  The footman stood to the side, to wait on their dining needs. Heat flushed Katherine’s cheeks. Clyde apparently hadn’t remembered the initial incident when George had stepped in, and had attempted to come to her again.

  Relieved she’d heeded George’s advice with the chair at the door, she said, “You were not yourself last evening.”

  Focusing on cutting a morsel of cake, she then forced it into her mouth and chewed slowly.

  “What is your purpose as a wife?”

  Katherine flinched and set down her silverware, clenching her linen napkin in her lap. “Thomas, you may go.”

  The footman eagerly took one step toward the exit.

  “No, Thomas,” said Clyde. “You are not permitted to leave. You will stay.”

  Thomas stepped back into place, stiff as a board, and swallowed hard.

  “Tell me, Katherine. What is your duty?”

  “This is not a conversation to have in front of servants.”

  “Why not? I am sure that Thomas could give the answer.”

  A flush of heat flamed up her neck as she sat there in agony, awaiting further humiliation he planned to heap onto her. Clyde pointed a finger down the table.

  “Your job is to get me an heir. And after all this time, I’m beginning to believe you were a worthless bargain in that department. So you will keep your door unlocked and do your duty. As I see fit. Wife.”

  The hatred seeping from the man who once had wooed her with some courtesy and charm was almost unbearable. He had once been a gentleman. She couldn’t even call him that anymore. He was a heartless beast.

  Edmund stepped into the dining hall with a letter delivery on a salver, a welcome interruption. Katherine removed the letter. No, there were two. She examined the scrawl on the first, which she did not recognize—bold and confident. It was addressed to her and her husband. The second letter was written in the same hand as the first, addressed to Lady Katherine Blakely. She glanced at the red seal and held her breath.

  “What is that?” asked Clyde.

  She broke the seal and opened the first. A fluttering in her stomach expanded wildly as she read the invitation.

  “An invitation to a house party by Lord Thornton.”

  “Who is he? I’ve not heard of him.”

  Clyde tossed his napkin on his plate and stood. Katherine shoved the second letter in her lap beyond the draping of the tablecloth so it couldn’t be seen. He walked to her end and plucked the invitation from her hand.

  “I’ve never met this man.”

  “I have.” She cleared her throat and met his suspicio
us gaze head-on. “At the Weathersby ball. He’s just arrived from abroad and is apparently trying to reacquaint himself with society.”

  “He might’ve returned earlier in the Season. It’s nearly done now.”

  “That’s likely why he’s holding a house party.”

  Clyde examined her carefully, trying to detect whether that was a sarcastic or serious remark. Fortunately, Katherine was good at wearing masks. She smiled up at him, but not too much, all the while clenching her skirt under the table, awaiting his answer.

  “Is this Lord Thornton a friend of Lord Radcliff?”

  She laughed lightly and took a sip of her water. “Hardly. There is apparently some family feud between them. They could scarcely bear one another’s company at the ball.”

  Clyde tossed the invitation on the table next to her plate. “I imagine the Karroways and Weathersbys will be there as well.”

  “To be sure. Lady Helene was well acquainted with the former Thornton. She talked with the new earl for some time at the ball.”

  That was an exaggeration, but she knew Clyde held Lady Helene in high esteem. How could one not? She was one of the most respected leaders of the ton. It would not do to have his wife not attend a highly attended party.

  “You may go, then.”

  Katherine stared at the cracked seal with the letters GDT within a crest. Clyde gripped her chin hard and tipped it up to him.

  “Heed my warning.”

  “Which warning was that?” she snapped without thinking.

  He grinned. “You have quite a pretty young maid, Katherine.”

  “Clyde, don’t—”

  “Then you best keep your door unlocked.” He gentled his grip but held her still as he placed a kiss on her forehead. Like a doting husband. Laughable. “I won’t attend the party as I have other business.” Then, mercifully, he strolled from the room.

  Katherine glanced at the footman, who had not moved from his position. The poor man had probably not even blinked. “You may go, Thomas,” she said, standing and swiftly leaving the room.

  With the second letter hidden in the palm of her hand and the folds of her skirt, she escaped to the far end of the first-floor corridor, all the way in the corner to her private parlor. Clyde never bothered her here. It was her sacred space for privacy. More so than even her bedroom. The morning light gilded the room a pink-gold hue. She curled up on the cream-colored chaise nearest the window and pulled the letter into her lap. For a moment, she simply caressed the red seal with George’s initials. With a deep inhale, she opened the letter. Something slipped into her hand. A yellow wildflower, a cinquefoil, like the ones that grew on the outer edge of Hyde Park. The letter was brief. But beautiful.

  Dearest Katherine,

  I am writing with the hope that today is a brighter day than the one before. I have no wisdom or advice to offer after our last meeting. Only this. You are worthy of riches and beauty, but even more than this, you are worthy of compassion and kindness. I would say more, but let this small token convey the happiness I wish for you.

  Today, I will light a candle for my past loved ones at three of the clock in St. George’s Church. I will light a candle for your father as well. May he rest in peace.

  Your friend,

  George Draconis

  Katherine reread the letter three more times before she finally laid it gently in her lap. In her fingers, she turned the wildflower, which had been flattened but not yet fully dried. She lifted the copy of Paradise Lost, still sitting on her side table, half-read, and opened it. After carefully placing the flower at its center, she set the book back on her table and ruminated while watching the sun grow brighter out the window. The pink roses in the garden looked especially beautiful today. The world looked especially brighter. St. George’s was an easy stroll to the other side of Hanover Square.

  She could not be angry with him for sending a somewhat intimate letter by regular post. Clyde had never interfered with her private letters before, but he was behaving more aggressively, more erratically as of late. What if he had intervened and opened the letter himself? Dreadful thought.

  Clyde’s side remark about Maggie had her worried. She tucked the letter in Paradise Lost with the flower, then sought her maid in the kitchen.

  “Have you seen Maggie?” she asked Cook, who stood over the stove, pouring chopped onions into a pot.

  “Yes, milady. Saw her go in the sewing room.”

  Continuing on down the back hall to the sewing room, she found Maggie sitting in the window seat with a needle in hand and the champagne dress Katherine had worn last night draped across her lap. Her stomach fell when she realized Maggie was working diligently on the bodice. She popped up as soon as Katherine entered, as Katherine didn’t often come down here.

  “Milady.” Maggie tucked her chin down, embarrassed either for the fact the dress was practically unmendable or the realization that the entire bodice had been ripped open by someone.

  “Please sit, Maggie.”

  She did, still holding the dress in one hand, the needle in the other. “It may take me a bit longer to fix this, milady, but—”

  “Stop mending the dress,” she said, taking a seat and placing a hand over her quickly moving fingers.

  Maggie stopped. “Milady?”

  “Tear it apart and keep the silk yourself, or sell it for profit to the milliner. I’ll never wear this dress again.”

  She did not question why. The reason was obvious.

  “Are you all right, milady?” she asked, staring at her lap and Katherine’s fair hand placed over her darker one.

  “I am. You needn’t worry about me.” She squeezed her hand and let it go. “But there is something I must ask of you.”

  “Anything you want, milady.”

  “When I am not in this house, I want you to stay down here in the servants’ quarters.”

  “But what about tending to your wardrobe and—”

  “When I am at home, you may tend to them. When I am not, stay down here. Help Cook. Or you may run my errands to the milliner or some other place outside this house. And at night, I want you to bolt your door.”

  Her round face tilted up to Katherine’s, a frown creasing her soft brow. She was so young. She couldn’t yet be seventeen. Edmund had bristled at the idea of hiring a lady’s maid so young last year, but all those she’d interviewed from the agency were either too cold or too overbearing. She would never have spent hours a day with someone of either sort. So when Katherine had stopped into Mosley’s for a new hat that week and spotted this friendly girl working diligently on her own creation, Katherine couldn’t help but inquire if the young girl would consider the position. Mr. Mosley was sad to see her go, but also pleased she was taking on an elevated position—one he could boast about to all the ladies of fashion who stopped into his haberdashery. Now Katherine wondered if she’d done the poor girl any favors by bringing her into this home. Clyde had not yet shown his true colors back then.

  “But why, milady?” asked Maggie, dragging Katherine back to the present.

  “Please, Maggie. Do not ask why. But do as I say. It is important that I know you’re safe.”

  The sweet-faced girl dipped her head. “Yes, milady.”

  “Now for today, you may come and assist me in packing,” she said in a lighter tone. “We have a house party to prepare for. And then you’ll need to pack up yourself.”

  “Oh? For how long?”

  “It appears to be almost a week. I have an errand to run at three o’clock. You can go to the milliner’s and sell that silk.”

  “As you wish, milady. I’ll return with the payment right after.”

  “No. You’ll keep it for yourself. Save it for when you are most in need.”

  Maggie’s eyes widened like saucers. The silk for this dress was worth more than a year’s wages.

&nb
sp; “I couldn’t—”

  “You can and you will. I won’t hear any more about it.”

  Katherine rose, feeling lighter than she had in ages.

  “Do you want me to attend you on your errand first, milady?”

  She stopped at the door, a secret smile spreading wide. “No. Thank you, Maggie. This is one errand I’d like to attend on my own.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was a quarter past three when Katherine stepped into the cool vestibule of St. George’s. Votive candles flickered under the statue of the Virgin Mary to the right. She moved farther into the sanctuary, her sight slowly adjusting to the dim interior lit only by the sunlight through the colorful panes of stained glass.

  Two elderly women sat toward the front in silent meditation and prayer. But no one else.

  “Katherine.”

  She started. Directly to her right was a solitary row, mostly concealed by a column. In the pew sat the man she longed to see. She genuflected, then entered the pew, sitting near him with enough space for one more person between. After placing her parasol on the pew, she folded her hands in her lap.

  She had run through her mind a myriad of conversations they might have when she met him again. How did you come by my house at that hour? How did you enter my home unimpeded? How were you at the right spot at the right moment when I needed aid? But now, she did not want to relive any of last night. She did not want to sully their time together with one more thought of that shameful incident. In the end, it did not matter. All that mattered to her was that he was there.

  “Did you know I’d come?” she asked quietly.

  “I’d hoped.”

  His arm rested along the back of the pew, the edge of his hand directly behind her. Once more, his proximity felt intimate, almost invasive. From the first touch on the dance floor at the ball, she had felt as if he were an interloper invading her space and her body, demanding she react to his palpable magnetism. Inhaling a deep breath, she fidgeted with her gloves, tugging at the wrists. This pair was too small, but she had been in a hurry to leave and couldn’t find the other. The silence stretched for some time. It was a comfortable silence, though Katherine found herself longing to hear the rolling timbre of his voice.