Stealing Midnight

by Tracy MacNish

  Olwyn couldn’t help it. She laughed. All her fear and upset and anxiousness of the day melted into hysteria, and her giggles became howls until she was doubled over, wiping her eyes with her sleeve and gasping for air.

  Mira’s cheeks grew red. “I assure you, I am quite serious. You will do as I say.”

  “You’re absurd,” Olwyn said, still laughing. “A comical farce.”

  “You will do as I command you!” Mira drew herself up stiffly.

  “Get out,” Olwyn said, wiping her eyes again as she suppressed further giggles. “I’ve no time for your silliness.”

  “You underestimate me.” With her hands balled into tiny fists and the skirts of her gown shaking, Mira looked like a petulant brat who didn’t want to share her favorite doll. She stamped her foot. “I want you gone.”

  Olwyn walked to the door, prepared to open it and bodily escort Mira out if she didn’t leave willingly.

  “Don’t you turn your back on me, peasant,” Mira decreed in a voice that shook with anger. “I will not tolerate your insolence.”

  Olwyn slowly turned and faced the other woman, her mirth completely gone. She raised her brow and said, “Aye, I’m a peasant, and aye, I’m insolent, as well. But you are not my mistress or my queen, and I don’t take orders from spoilt little girls who’ve worked themselves into a fit of pique. My advice to you is to leave, for I’m feeling my own temper rise.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Mira hissed.

  Olwyn followed Mira’s line of vision, glanced down and saw that her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger. She smiled. “It’s a fact that I could cut your heart out, but not necessarily a fact that I will.”

  “Oh, you are far too full of yourself.”

  “Is that so? I would make the exact same observation about you. It seems we’ve found some common ground, after all.”

  “Everything about you is common.” Mira said the word like it was a curse.

  “Not so,” Olwyn corrected. “I am uncommonly good at many things.”

  Mira narrowed her eyes. “Such as bedroom skills, apparently.”

  Olwyn felt herself blush, but she didn’t otherwise allow embarrassment to show. “I’m capable of gaining a man’s attention without resorting to deception and deceit, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I don’t know to what you could possibly be referring,” Mira said coolly. “I am, have always been, and shall forever be the very best match for any man of quality. I’ve never deceived a man, because there is simply no need.”

  “What’s with all of this, then? If you’re so desirable and in demand, why are you trying to get rid of me?”

  Mira pursed her lips to the side, the patrician line of her brows furrowed. She seemed to decide on honesty, for she blurted, “I will not be made a laughingstock, do you hear me? I will not have it be known that my betrothed jilted me in favor of you, a common Welsh peasant with the face of a hobgoblin and the fashion sensibilities of a fishwife.”

  Olwyn laughed at Mira’s description of her, and was amazed that she could hear such words and not feel any pain from them. “Don’t forget to add that I’m a piebald beast of a woman. It makes for better storytelling.”

  “’Tis a tale that will never be told. You are leaving tonight, escorted by my father’s manservants. Through them I’ve made all the arrangements.” Mira placed a hand on her chest and leaned forward, her expression purely sincere. “Please know, Miss Gawain, that I don’t have a grudge against you, personally, though I do think you represent a severe lapse in judgment on my former betrothed’s behalf, but I suppose there’s no accounting for what will turn a man’s head. In any event, I do hope you will understand that I simply cannot allow you to continue on here, for I will absolutely not be reduced to playing second to your fiddle. You see, in the upper classes of society, a woman’s reputation is all she has.”

  “I suppose it would be naïve of me to think you might worry less about what people thought of you in favor of being a person you could be proud of.”

  “Such gammon,” Mira said dismissively. “You wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what I’ll endure if Aidan Mullen takes you to wife on the heels of jilting me. You cannot possibly imagine how I’ll be laughed at and whispered about. ’Tis impossible for you to know the embarrassment I’ll feel. Where you come from, such things don’t matter a whit, but in my life, ’twill become all-consuming. It won’t matter what reason I give as to why the betrothal was dissolved; if he is with you, they will draw their own conclusions, and I will not suffer their disdain. Do you hear me? I will not.”

  As Olwyn listened to Mira, it struck her that Mira cared so much about the judgment of others that opinions had become her reality. It made Olwyn’s experience in Penarlâg worth the pain, for it had forced Olwyn to define herself by her own standards, and to find her own worth in ways that had nothing to do with what she looked like or what she wore. How odd, she thought, that she would come to view being reviled as a blessing.

  That realization sparked a tiny flare of pity for Mira, that her self-worth was tied up in the gossipy, and by the sounds of it, disapproving people in her acquaintance. It seemed the villagers of Penarlâg had something in common with the wealthy English aristocracy after all.

  “I’m sorry,” Olwyn said, meaning the words. “None of this was intended to cause you any upset.”

  “And so it won’t.” Mira took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. She met Olwyn’s gaze boldly, and squared her shoulders. “I’m unaccustomed to coercion, but like all challenges presented to me, I am prepared to do whatever it takes to get what I want. And with that said, let me lay out for you exactly why you will do as I say—I am in possession of journals written by my great-uncle Bret Kimball, the heir to our family’s dukedom. He was engaged to be married to Camille Mullen, long ago. I will summarize the worst of it—Camille’s father was a bastard, and whilst ’tis likely too late to prove that, ’twill most definitely cause a stir in the House of Lords. Add to that, Amelia Bradburn used to beat Camille with a strap. According to Bret’s accounts, Camille’s back is webbed with scars because she would not stop whoring herself to Patrick Mullen.”

  Olwyn gasped, appalled that Mira could speak of Camille being scarred with what sounded like glee, and that she would refer to such a gracious woman as a whore. “You have no right to speak of such things.”

  “Oh, it gets worse,” Mira said with long, drawn out pleasure. “Camille was made pregnant by Patrick, before they were married, and suffered a miscarriage some months later. Bret indicates that he was still willing to wed her, and in fact gave her a Kimball family heirloom ring—that she never saw fit to return—and yet, not more than a few days later, Patrick Mullen was discovered in her sleeping chamber, and Camille was so very drunk, on spirits—which should elicit a bit of sympathy from you Miss Gawain—that Camille could not even walk! Camille, it seems, was not above taking a man’s ring, accepting his offer of marriage, and still continuing to drunkenly whore herself to a common Irishman like some sort of fishmonger’s daughter.”

  “You are a guest in their home,” Olwyn said, truly aghast. “How can you speak so disrespectfully of people who’ve been nothing but good to you?”

  “I’ll do more than speak of it, Miss Gawain. These journals are lewd, and full of details that would completely humiliate the Mullen family. I assure you, I have only given you a sampling of what’s actually in them.” Mira crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, clearly smug in the role she’d chosen for herself. “If you do not do as I say and vacate these premises tonight, those journals, every last tawdry, implicating page of them, will be published by my father’s newspaper in weekly columns that will be certain to keep the aristocracy riveted. There will not be a single person of the Mullens’ acquaintance who will not know their family’s most shameful, mortifying secrets, and the Mullen family will be the ones who are made the laughingstock. Not I.”

  “You are truly disgusting.”


  “Call me what you will. I care nothing for your opinion.”

  “Whatever happened to you, to render you so completely without compunction?”

  “Your answer,” Mira said with false patience. In truth, her eyes glittered with delight, and Olwyn couldn’t help but wonder which Mira would prefer: Olwyn to leave England forever, or to have Bret Kimball’s journals published. Both options seemed to delight Mira. “What say you, Miss Gawain? Will you force my hand and cause the Mullen family public ignominy? Or will you allow me to see to your passage to the Americas, and accept my offer of compensation for your absence?”

  Olwyn fell silent, unable to totally comprehend what Mira had planned for the Mullen family if she did not comply. She imagined leaving and never seeing Aidan again, and pain stabbed her chest. And then she imagined Camille’s humiliation if Mira went through with her threats, and the pain grew.

  “Haven’t you caused this family enough trouble?” Mira asked. “That poor dog, and now the men are forced to find its killer. If one of those men are hurt or killed in the process of catching your insane father, ’twill be completely your fault, Miss Gawain. I hope you know that the Duchess will not be so kind to you if her beloved husband dies at your father’s hand, nor will Camille think you are her darling project if her treasured son or grandsons are murdered because you lured your father here.”

  Olwyn’s blood grew cold, sending chills down her spine. She couldn’t help but picture Mira’s words coming to fruition, and it made her feel sick to her stomach.

  “If your silence indicates you’re thinking about the outcome of the lurid journals being published, I hope you are also wise enough to consider that unless one of the Mullen men kills your father, your presence here will consistently bring danger to their doorstep. For that matter, if they do kill him, you will have forced a man to kill another, and he will have murder on his conscience. All for you.” Mira tilted her head to the side and swept her gaze up and down Olwyn’s form. “Are you worth all this trouble, Miss Gawain? Are you worth murder?”

  Olwyn’s mind answered the question for her. No. She wasn’t. No matter what Aidan might say to the contrary, Olwyn knew in her heart that she wasn’t worth the humiliation of an entire family. And to think of the murder, the blood of her father on someone else’s hands…it made Olwyn’s sick feeling turn to churning nausea.

  “You really are quiet, aren’t you? Not laughing any more, I see.” Mira walked across the room and stood in front of Olwyn, close enough that she could smell her powdery rose perfume. “Where are the threats to cut out my heart now?”

  “You don’t have one.”

  “Oh, such melodrama. Of course I do, and I truly regret having to go to such extremes, but you can’t honestly expect to come into this household and rob me of my future husband without a single consequence. If anything demonstrates your naiveté, ’twould be that. Really, Miss Gawain, ’tis quite childish for you to not expect retaliation of some sort, and after all, ’tis me you’re dealing in this matter. I may be young, and am most certainly well-bred, but make no mistake, I am a force of nature.”

  Olwyn’s mind spun and her heart thudded hard and fast. She felt as if she stood on a precipice, where jumping meant certain demise, but remaining assured the same.

  She envisioned leaving, and knew that in time Aidan would find a new woman to love. It pained her to think of him with someone new, to imagine her curled against his strong body, her cheek on his chest. It became a physical pain as she could practically hear the new woman calling him Lóchrann, knowing that she would grow old with him and would be privy to the secrets of his heart.

  But Olwyn had no right to cause more suffering. She’d done enough when she’d led her father to the Mullen home. To know that by remaining she would cause humiliation of the highest order to people who’d been nothing but kind to her was more than Olwyn could bear.

  With all those thoughts came another, and as Olwyn considered just how deceitful Mira was capable of being, she said, “Let me see these journals.”

  “You doubt me,” Mira said with a tinkling laugh. “How charming. Come with me, Miss Gawain, and I will happily show you.”

  Mira swept past Olwyn and led the way to the double doors. When she opened them, Olwyn saw that just outside stood two of her father’s manservants, waiting in the corridor. Acknowledging their presence, she said to Olwyn over her shoulder, “You’ll understand I don’t trust you, either. If you want to see them, you’ll have to leave your pistol and your dagger behind. No offense, Miss Gawain, but I cannot have your fiercer nature taking over. Mind you, both my men are armed. They will not allow you to assault me.”

  Olwyn reluctantly removed them, and followed Mira and her men out of the rooms. She couldn’t make a decision without being certain the journals existed.

  With the entire family downstairs dining, the house was silent but for their footfalls on the thick carpet. The halls were inviting, the walls covered in creamy peach silk and the dark hardwood floors cushioned with Persian runners. Art was in tasteful abundance, with paintings on the walls and sculptures set on elegant tables. Olwyn walked by it all without seeing.

  Just as she’d feared, her dream had turned into a nightmare. There was no incense to burn to chase the bad dream away, no clever ploy to fix the problem.

  If she stayed, she would cause more suffering.

  Mira’s rose perfume filled her chambers as they entered her sitting room. The servants rushed to light the lamps and candles as Mira swept across the room to a locked chest. Using a small key she’d taken from her reticule, she opened the trunk. Out wafted the smells of cedar and old leather. She lifted one of the books and carried it to the writing desk, set it down, opened to a random page, and began to read aloud.

  25 May, 1741

  I shall consider today a success. I met her, the beautiful Camille. She is everything the duchess has promised, lovely beyond my imagining. Though she is not without flaw. It seems there is an Irish sea captain who has caught her fancy. The duchess tells me they were riding alone in the wood, and when they emerged, Camille’s hair was mussed and her eyes were bright. Needless to say, this shocking behavior—

  Mira glanced up to Olwyn and raised her brows. “You do realize she’s ruined at this point? I don’t know how it works in the Welsh mountains, but in London society this sort of thing is simply not done.” She turned to the back of the book and leafed through the pages, found one that struck her fancy and continued reading.

  13 January, 1742

  I visited with Camille this afternoon, and smelt the brandy on her yet again. I know she imbibes in an effort to forget the Irishman, but the unseemliness of the drink on her breath nearly overwhelms my desire for her. It seems enough that I should have to overlook her lack of virtue, but I am also forced to overcome the fact that she’d carried his child. The drink seems a final straw, as I envision her years on, a drunken beauty staggering as she flees my presence.

  “Shall I go on? I assure you, ’tis more shocking than anything I could fabricate. Trust me when I tell you, Lady Camille Bradburn Mullen would not enjoy seeing my uncle’s words printed for all of England to read. And read it they would, I assure you, with the great delight of people titillated by the downfall of one who once had everything.” Mira flipped through more pages and stopped at another. “Here’s the part where Bret speaks of how Amelia had too much port one night and let it slip that her husband, Kenley Bradburn, was nothing more than a bastard, the get of an Irish horse trainer who’d charmed his way into the mistress’s bed.”

  “Stop,” Olwyn said harshly. It felt voyeuristic to be listening to details of Camille’s private life, no matter how long ago the events took place. “You have no right to read such things, let alone publish them.”

  “I have every right. I own these journals, and will do as I see fit with them. They are part of Kimball history, and if I choose to make that history public, ’tis my affair.” Mira spread her hand over the pages possessively, and
added, “Of course, I’ll edit out any of the passages where my uncle paints himself as less than innocent. There’s no need to speak ill of the dead, is there?”

  “There’s no need to speak ill of anyone,” Olwyn replied acerbically. Never when she’d been living with her father, alone and longing for love, had she imagined that it would come at such a price. The injustice of it made her angry, and her inability to stay with Aidan without causing further harm had her more frustrated than she’d ever been in her life. “All you’ll get from this is my absence. I don’t see how that seems worth such an extreme measure. Were you to follow through on your threat, an entire family and all of their friends would despise you.”

  “Such fire you have. Look at yourself, Miss Gawain. You’re all in a lather, aren’t you? And though you have no lack of passion on the matter, you seem to forget with whom you’re dealing. Do you honestly think I’d care that the Mullen family would be angry with me?” Mira answered her own question with a flat declaration. “Hardly. As for the Mullen family and their feelings, why, I have my own hurts to nurse. Life is full of injuries, disappointments, embarrassments, and upsets, but ’tis the responsibility of the press to print the truth wherever they find it. Why should the Mullens be protected? For that matter, if Camille Mullen had spent half a second considering the consequences to her actions, she wouldn’t have anything to hide. Therefore, I refuse any accountability anyone might wish to place upon me. I am merely making fact a matter of public record, and there is no crime in that.”

  Mira glanced at the timepiece on the mantel and let out a little sigh of impatience. “’Tis getting very late, Miss Gawain. You’ve had enough explanation, and I assume you’re reasonably intelligent. By now you should have had enough information and proof to have made your decision. Tell me now, for my offer to help you leave England expires after I leave this room.”