Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 2)

by Vanessa Riley

  Sitting up, she put her head against the walnut frame and tugged the bedclothes and blankets up to her chin. "Barrington said you believe me. Why? Why now?"

  The lady eased onto the mattress. She pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders and balled the onyx knit fabric around her palms as if to hide her guilty hands. "I've believed you for a while now. Almost as soon as I got you home from Bath, but you'd stopped talking to anyone until Mr. Norton returned from the war. I should've told you then. I let my pride keep me from saying so."

  "Then why did you tell Barrington?"

  "Years without seeing you or your sister have given me plenty of time to think. I can't ignore my guilt of how I dealt with you. You never lied to me, and I let you be treated dreadfully. I would have never let those English butchers torture you, if I'd known what they'd do."

  Amora's fingers almost clawed through the weave of the soft blue blanket. She took a breath. Her aching chest rattled from the effort. How could one be so cold and yet smolder with fury?

  Her mother scooted close. The thick Mechlin lace adorning her sleeves billowed like sails. The woman held out her arms as if she wanted to hug her. The delicate lady with her tawny brown skin could play the role of a grieving widow better than any, but Amora wouldn't play along. "No more fake sentiment. None."

  Her mother came closer, her jeweled hand outstretched. "Amora?"

  Bracing for a slap, Amora tensed then forced her shoulders to relax. She wasn't that waif who crawled home for safety. No, just a woman who'd nearly killed herself and her husband. "I suppose this proves what a sorry sight I am."

  Mother's fingers lifted Amora's chin. She splayed her pinkie in her crazy drooping locks. "My poor dear. A mad man held you captive. I know that now." She tugged her fully into an embrace. "Instead of welcoming you home, I let my pride imprison you all over again. I'm so sorry."

  That word sorry made the air heavy. The hug felt soggy and stifling. Things weren't fixed because Mother wished it so. She pulled away.

  Wiping at her eyes, Mama sat up straight. "I pray for you daily." Her proud voice cracked, almost whimpering. It sounded desperate, so like Amora's desperation. "I want Isis to make both of my daughters happy."

  Mama and her idols. Amora sighed at the notion of praying to wood. Well, now at the whole notion of prayer. "I thought I could trust you now, but I'm not sure."

  She picked up Amora's hand and brought it to her lips. "I believe you. Hear me. Know that this is real."

  It was so hard to discern between what was true and what was falsehoods. "I want to. But did you shed tears, or pray to the wooden god when you learned of the doctors' treatments, the scalding hot baths, knocking me off tables, foul elixirs, which vomited out everything inside? Now nothing can grow inside. You and Papa's cousin let them kill my spirit, what little there was left."

  Mother rubbed her stomach. "Barrington told me about your miscarriage."

  She grabbed Amora in a tight embrace, pushing out the little air in her withered lungs. "I'm so sorry."

  Amora closed her eyes. The complaints, the accusations had to all be out in the open. "I hate the pitiful sprite I've become. I won't be her anymore."

  "Look at me. I've done wrong by you and by Barrington. I'll spend the rest of my life making amends. Please let us start anew. Let me be of help to you."

  Tears puddled by Amora's nose. It had to be river water. How could she have any tears left in her eyes? How could she still weep over yesterday? Yesterday, a few months, a few years, all blended but overshadowed by the memory of this woman's voice shouting, "Wild like a mangy mutt. How dare you come back here with your tail between your legs! You're a disgrace to the Tomàs name."

  Strangling in her sobs, Amora pushed free. "I never betrayed Barrington, and yet my captor wouldn't kill me. Maybe he knew you and Barrington would later." She held her wrists out, one still bearing a nicely healed slit. "A thousand cuts with your disapproval."

  "Amora, no!" Her accent, the one she'd worked so hard at removing came out. "I am so ashamed I let others hurt you. How do I make amends? Tell me. I'll do anything."

  This was real. She touched Mama's wet cheeks, catching a few of the tears dribbling down her jaw. The salted water puddled in her thumb, and then ran down upon the veining of her palm. "You do hurt for me. But can I trust you again?"

  "Ala mula y a la mujer, a palos se ha de vencer."

  The sounds, the syllables and cadence of her mother's voice were perfect for Papa's favorite teasing phrase, a mule and a woman can only be defeated by a stick. For a moment, she could picture him standing at Mama's side, laughing with his big black gaucho cocked to the side of his head.

  "I've been a mule, more so than a mother. Definitely not a woman of a compassion. The stick of truth has defeated me. I surrender. Let me humble myself to you."

  Something deep inside Amora thawed. Her shoulders shook as a fresh wave of rawness erupted from her eyes. She couldn't breathe for crying so hard.

  Mama stroked her face, lightly rubbed her temples. "I'll make it better if you let me. I won't let anyone hurt you again, not even me."

  Counting to nine or nine hundred, Amora calmed and found herself in Mama's lap shrouded beneath her shawl.

  "I love you, Amora. What can I do to prove it?"

  Proof. "I'm sick of proof, Mama. Just show me. Don't let Barrington send me to Bath or Bedlam. No asylum. Promise me that."

  Mother's brows knitted and her tresses flopped from her disheveled chignon and covered her eyes. "He wouldn't—"

  "I didn't think you would either, but you did. Mama, I just waited on a high cliff hoping to fall off. He stood by me. I almost caused him to fall. He knows my thinking gets cloudy. Like the clients he's had put away. He'll do it to me too as if being locked in a tiny room with little light would make me better."

  The images of the cellar, the asylum, of lost Sarah blended. There had to be freedom from this pain if she could find her friend. She wouldn't forget Sarah anymore. "Promise to stop him."

  Mama drew her up against her bosom. The grip was tight. Maybe this time, she'd never let go.

  "Take me to Tomàs Manor. This room is so small, so plain. It reminds me of Bath. I keep testing my arms to see if they are bound." She held the woman tighter, inhaling her comforting lavender scent. "Please let me be able to trust you again."

  "I'll do all I can. And you'll be going nowhere but to Tomàs Manor, but Barrington is your husband. He does have the final word. It's his right."

  "Maybe he shouldn't be my husband anymore."

  "What? You love him. He loves you. He's outside pacing, waiting to see you."

  His love wasn't enough. It didn't fill her emptiness or hide her from the memories. Now it just made her sad. "I can't pretend I'm well around him anymore. I can't see him."

  "The man hasn't left your door. Let him visit with you, just for a few moments."

  "He almost fell off that cliff. He'll risk everything chasing after his crazed wife. Rumors of my behavior will get out. It will affect his career." That was first in his life, not Amora. She pushed away and crawled back under the blankets. "Lying to Barrington got me into this marriage. The truth should be able to free us. Find a way, something that will put me under your power since my judgment will always be in question."

  "I'll try, Amora. It won't be easy. His mind is steeped in English law. If only I could get you back to Egypt."

  "No leaving Papa's orchards. I'll get stronger feeling him about. Well, his good memories at least."

  Amora lay back on the pillow and released a long breath. The word divorce stuck in her throat. Maybe saying it aloud would relieve the helplessness trapped in her lungs. The sentiment hurt as bad as the river's pressure. Freeing herself from Barrington's scrutiny and that of his London world had to be for the best. She pushed up as straight as her strengthless body could manage. "Help me divorce him."

  "You want a d-divorce?" Mama stood and traipsed to the tiny window. She flicked the curtains betwixt her s
haking palms.

  "Concerned I'll be a blight to the Tomàs name? Father must be turning over in his grave at the thought of a Tomàs seeking divorcement. Maybe some pharaohs, too."

  She came close again. "If that is what you want, Amora, I'll try to figure something out."

  Mama was a force of nature. A typhoon when she wanted something. She could make the impossible happen. But could Amora trust that she'd fight for her?

  As if she'd heard the doubts rattling in the cobwebs of Amora's skull, Mama sat on the bed and opened her arms wide. "I will never side against you again."

  Taking a chance, Amora went into her embrace, sinking into arms that appeared to want her. "Make me one of your teas. Something that will put me to sleep. Let me awake in my old room. That way I won't have to say sorry for the hundredth time or witness pity in Barrington's face."

  "Yes, dear." Her fingers combed through Amora's tresses. "Maybe I'll braid your hair, like old times. I'll put some honey in your tea. I know how you enjoy that."

  Amora closed her eyes to a slit. Though she wished it never to happen, she had to stay vigilant to detect the moment Mama would betray her again.

  Chapter Six: Past Yuletide

  Standing at the window, Amora counted snowflakes, just the ones falling and melting against the glass. No running outside of Tomàs Manor to catch a perfect pattern on her tongue. If she did, the whole house would be in an uproar.

  The six-week truce with her mother and Barrington would be over. Then what? Sent away by one of them. No snowflake was worth being put in an asylum. No, it was better to be fettered by imaginary chains than real iron locks.

  She pulled at her shawl and looked outside again. Forty-two days had passed since she'd fallen into the river and nearly died, yet it wasn't enough time to regain her strength. She surely didn't have enough to pretend all was well.

  Things weren't.

  The nightmares were worse. They chilled her bones, robbed her of her sleep, so much more so than before. Mixed up voices of her lost friend, even acquaintances long dead, all filled her head when she closed her eyes.

  Mama had been kind, waiting upon her, sitting with her until the lady's head nodded and tiredness overtook her. When Mama left, Amora would arise and paint. Feeling the brush betwixt her finger, the tart smell of the oils awoke a part of her that had been silent too long. Before she knew it, all her canvases were filled. Then those stark white walls had to vanish. Each stroke kept her mind from shredding to bits. Each smear of the horsehair bristles pushed aside the weight of the horrible images and sounds.

  Thick iron links wrapped about her wrists.

  The screams, the remembered moans of pure terror.

  How many girls lost their dreams, their sanity because of the monster?

  How long could she keep fighting before she couldn't?

  She blinked in time to see a perfect snowflake land on the glass, flawless with its veining, its pristine color. Something to have caught on her tongue and pretend again that all was right.

  That Barrington loved her.

  In the silent hours of the night, the early mornings when she could no longer stand and had to lie down, that's when she needed him. Waking in his arms, listening to his heart thud in her ear always made it easier to remember that she'd escaped, that she was free. Now she had to depend upon handwritten notes with dates and little phrases for strength.

  Yet, paper wasn't Barrington. It didn't possess a rumbling laughter, nor questions or accusations or pity. She leaned against the glass and let the chilly pane freeze her cheek. It had been a good two weeks since he gave up knocking on her door.

  But he wasn't the kind of man to be easily deterred. He must be biding his time, probably waiting for her fears to drive her back into his arms.

  Dipping into her pocket, she pulled out one of her notes. One cut of twisted foolscap held the date. Another said she was free. All the proof she needed since she couldn't depend on Barrington.

  Mama's voice carried down the hall. Probably instructing the cook on apple pie making or a maid on the proper way to dust her idols. Her mother prayed to the statue of Isis almost everyday. Did the polish mahogany figure hear her?

  Probably not. Nothing had changed. Neither Barrington nor the ghastly memories had left.

  Yet, her mother bore this time well. She even let the yuletide pass with no decorations or showy dinners — so against everything in the woman's nature.

  No matter how much the woman claimed she'd stand by her, Barrington was her husband. He had all the power. An aggressive barrister couldn't be stopped.

  Before fear or pity or her mother could come to her, she stepped out onto the portico. Closing the door behind her, she panted and let the crisp air work its magic. She slumped against the rail and looked out at the white lawn, the cream dollops of snow on tree branches. Papa loved this time of year, second only to harvest time. Dear Papa, send me strength. I don't know what to do.

  "I like this time of year in Clanville. Everything so beautiful and snowy." The deep voice rose above her swirling thoughts. Barrington was here, not in the guest chambers reading. Why couldn't this one time, he be a figment of her imagination?

  Caught like a rat in a trap, she whirled around to spy him sitting in a chair bundled in his greatcoat, gloves, and top hat. Was he contemplating leaving?

  No carriage was near.

  Maybe he too wanted air. Maybe he wanted to be free and just couldn't force himself to say the words.

  "Amora, you look well. Are you feeling better?"

  "A little."

  The front spindles of his chair were off the ground as it leaned against the wall. The thing teetered as if it would dump him to the ground. If it did, he'd hurt his hip. She raised a hand to caution him, then lowered it. He could take care of himself. "I'll leave you to your privacy." She turned to re-enter the house.

  "Please don't go."

  "Barrington, I've been out here too long."

  "You mean you've been around me too long, a whole minute."

  His countenance wore a painted smile. She remembered when his face lit with laughter. A slight dimple would appear at the corner of his lips. Right now, he seemed almost pained.

  Backing up against the corner column, she folded her arms over her bosom to protect her heart from whatever he would say. Her arms trembled against each other. She hoped he couldn't see how vulnerable she was to his opinions.

  She bit her lip and feigned calm. "I'll stand here another minute."

  She caught his half-smile, but braced for his censure. Yet nothing came, just silence and stares.

  Her minute stretched a little longer. The sun set around them. Shades of orange fell upon the lightly dusted portico. The colors even reflected in his spectacles. His eyes looked so sad. She'd put that pain there. Her heart whimpered. When would they stop hurting each other?

  Counting to at least five hundred, she released a rattled breath as she started to the door. "Now, I'm beginning to tire. Goodnight, Barrington."

  "Well, I should be grateful for the crumbs you've shown me."

  She pivoted at the threshold. Knowing he was baiting her for a response did nothing to caution her. "What?"

  "I need you to hear me out. I want you to forgive me."

  With the hard edge in his voice, he'd give chase if she ran, so she stopped. Her short heels thudded atop the floorboards. "I don't want to argue or listen to your well thought out court statements. I'm not Justice Burns."

  He released a deep sigh. "At least then I'd get a fair hearing. Well, let's talk about the cliff."

  She'd rather listen to his apology. She tugged at her shawl. "What should I testify to? Do you want your lunatic wife to verbalize her desperation? I'm better. No need for you to be concerned. I'll pretend nothing has changed. You have my statement. Do with it what you will."

  "I am concerned, Amora. I want to help."

  He said the words so matter-of-factly, like they were discussing the weather. He must wonder if she'
d make another attempt to jump. Who knows? She hadn't felt that low in a long time. Maybe she should be put into care. She raised her palms high. "I surrender to an official of the court. Just tell me what asylum you'll send me to for help."

  His stare swept over her, making her cold fingers hot. "Send you where? You'll go no place without me." He scratched at his chin, his tone softened. "Together, we should go to Cornwall. Remember the blue water and how happy we were. Some waves might not be frozen."

  "Stop it. We'd never have gone there for a wedding trip if I'd told you the truth. We should never have married."

  He cleaned his lenses and reared forward, planting his boots upon the creaking plank. "I loved you when we said our vows. I love you more so now that I know the truth, understanding what you endured. Let's go from here and start anew."

  This was one of the main reasons why she'd avoided him. He'd say something noble, some lie her weak heart wanted to believe. She shook her head to the fib. "Tricks are beneath you. I'll go willingly this time to the asylum. Crazy people need to be put away where they can't hurt you, Mama, or anyone else."

  "You're not crazed. Anyone can have a moment of despair."

  "A moment?" Chuckles poured out of her mouth as tears taunted her eyes. "My moment nearly killed you, and we both know what my panic did."

  She pressed at her abdomen as if her finger could wipe the guilt from her body, the agony from her soul. "Make this easier for me. Will it be Bedlam this time or the butchers in Bath?"

  He wrenched at his neck, unfastening the top button on his greatcoat. "I'll not abandon you. Not again, not when you need me."

  "Even the great Barrington Norton can't help." She shook her head and looked down at her low boots. "Just go love Cynthia or someone else. I want you happy. That can't be with me."

  "Amora, have you grown to hate me? Is there nothing in your heart for me?"

  She gazed at him again, wondering why he was toying with her. She wasn't fit to be his helpmate, a position she'd lied to become. And why did he sound hurt? More tricks to make her think they could be happy. Never. Five years too late. "You'll do better in your career without me. I'll never be an asset. My temperament's not suited for politicking, and you can't be all you wish to be with an otherworldly wife."