Mrs. Tomàs pattered over to him. The babe fisted his hand onto her mobcap. He grabbed it and exposed her ash-black hair. "Surely, Mr. Norton, you and Amora can let this abduction business be done with. It's over for us."
He took the struggling boy from her arms, swaddling the lively thing in his creamy pinafore. Such a strong, healthy child. "It's not over until someone pays for the crime."
The little boy settled and grabbed his nose.
If he allowed his heart to be jealous, it would be greener than whatever Rebecca painted on the canvas. Amora played family with the vicar's children. Dying a little more on the inside from his own withered dreams of family, of a happy home with the woman he loved, Barrington forced his tone to be sweet. "My wife knows I must learn all the facts. It's just my way."
He bounced the boy again, enjoying the tiny eager eyes of the little fellow. "And where is the good vicar to complete our group?"
Amora's lips pouted. She hadn't glared at him directly since the argument, but now violet lights beamed at him. "You know how to hold a baby very well. I should've known you'd take to it easily."
She clasped her hands in her lap and looked down. "The vicar should be here soon."
Blasted man and his adorable children making them feel the loss of their child again. Blasted heart for hurting so much. Get a handle on your emotions, Norton. "Sweetheart, I'll need to ask you questions. Starting with what you do remember is the best way to make progress. We can work in my study or go for a drive."
The slam of the front door and the cackling laughter of Mrs. Gretling announced the vicar's irritating arrival.
Amora's gaze lifted, her countenance seemed to smooth. What a great confidant he must be for her.
"There's the vicar. Coming to retrieve his dear children. They must all stay for dinner. Mama has been helping Mrs. Gretling."
Barrington continued to make faces at the little boy to hide his covetousness or convey his sympathy to poor Mrs. Gretling having to endure the pharaoh directly.
The vicar waltzed through the door and headed straight for Barrington. "Thank you, Mr. Norton."
Almost wishing for another moment, Barrington handed him the boy.
The vicar lifted his son into the air and twirled him.
Rebecca came running and gripped the man's leg. "Papa, come see what I've done."
"Yes, moppet, I've thought of nothing else but coming here to see the wonderful things Mrs. Tomàs and Mrs. Norton have taught you."
He wandered behind the sofa to his child's painting, his steps, so happy, so complete.
Barrington's jealous heart stewed again, but he stepped to his wife. "Well, Amora, a drive or my office? Let's get on with these questions."
The vicar looked over his shoulder. "I think it's a wonderful idea for you and Mr. Norton to go for a drive. That will give Mrs. Tomàs and me plenty of time to discuss our next big outing."
Mrs. Tomàs joined the vicar, standing at his side. "Yes, Amora, go put on your walking dress. It's still full-mourning outside these walls. The air will do you good. She felt a bit poorly this morning, Mr. Norton."
Amora stood, her motion slow, like she'd become dizzy.
"Are you up to this, madam wife? We can postpone."
She shrugged. "I'll go put on something appropriate." She looked again toward the vicar, then headed out of the room.
Wilson gave his son to Mrs. Tomàs. "Becky, go with this dear lady and get cleaned up for dinner."
With nods and another hug, the vicar's children left the parlor with Mrs. Tomàs, leaving only the men.
Wilson traipsed toward Barrington. "Mrs. Norton told me of the disastrous meeting with Sarah Jenkins."
Puffing up his chest, Barrington steeled himself for the admonishment. "Go ahead and tell me how wrongheaded this is."
"On the contrary, Mr. Norton, keep helping. I've tried to get her to talk about her captivity to get the fear stuck out of her head, but she becomes reticent in the middle. With you, she might be braver."
"So she won't tell you?" Barrington almost felt a portion of glee at having any advantage with Amora. "Wilson, what do you think I should do?"
The vicar yanked on his waistcoat and stalked about, proud like a peacock. He went to the window and tugged on the curtain. "Keep her out until it's dark. Make her confront the fear."
"Take her to the park or somewhere in nature to distract her?"
"I'm not as familiar with London as you, but somewhere she can let her guard down. Be gentle, but don't stop until you get the whole story of her abduction. Reassure her that it wasn't her fault. If she can talk about it, she might be able to overcome the terror she carries. No matter how reasonable she seems, it's still with her. It lives in each breath."
Wilson pivoted, his face absent of cheer, lips etched in the deepest frown. "Don't let her become too fearful. Mr. Playfair's and my cousin, Harriet Westbrook Shelley, grew despondent and drowned herself in one of those parks. I assume that means all the London parks aren't filled with flowers and music."
Barrington winced, remembering poor Harriet's story. Her suicide was in the papers with all the torrid details of her abandonment and secret pregnancy. Women suffered greatly under scandal. His stubborn heart softened again for Amora and the choices she made.
Draped in a dark gown with black velvet edging the hem and a crisp straw bonnet, she stood at the door. Amora bit her lip then leveled her shoulders. "I'm ready."
Barrington nodded. "Have a good dinner, Vicar. Come along, my dear."
He scooped up his greatcoat and received her arm. Barrington didn't appreciate a lecture from another man about his wife, but the warning felt true. If he couldn't find a way to solve this crime, there would be another low moment, and it would challenge her resolve to live. Right now, he didn't think this side of glory would win.
Amora tapped the carriage seat, her short nails clicking upon a tufted button as she counted the seconds between horse clomps. How could they be stuck in heavy traffic? James, Barrington's man-of-all-work, was very capable. For their last outing to Whitby, the fellow had whisked them through London as if they flew upon sparrow's wings.
The sun lowered in the horizon. Her chest shuddered. Evening was approaching. Did Barrington intend for them to go down every busy road, wasting time?
At this pace, they wouldn't return to Mayfair before dark. Was that what he wanted?
A seed of terror stuck in her head and rooted. The last time she rode that way was the night she miscarried. Her temples began to pound. Amora struggled to lift her chin.
Barrington sat silent in the seat opposite her, staring in her direction. What was he thinking? Where did he instruct James to go? Until today, her husband seemed distant. Physically, he'd lived at Mayfair, offered polite comments, came in and out of the town house like clockwork, but one look into his grey eyes announced the truth. There was nothing there, as if he were hundreds of miles away.
Yet, something had changed when he held Jackson. Barrington's lenses possessed a spark, so warm and volatile, it shot heat across the room. The vicar's young son grew sleepy, at peace within Barrington's arms. Being in his arms always made her feel better, too.
When the carriage turned onto Park Lane, her spirit sank deeper. They headed to Hyde Park, that pretentious place. Maybe Barrington wanted people to see them together to squelch the rumors of an upset in the Norton household. How much talk did the partygoers unleash after the fight with Mr. Charleton at the Dowager's ball?
Barrington blew into his gloved hands. "Why are you frowning? Can't a husband take his wife for a ride through the park? You love nature. I remember that."
She shrank back from the window, tugging her palms into her lap. "The whole surface of Hyde Park is dry crumbling sand, not a vestige or hint of grass. You did not get me out of Mayfair for a nature walk."
"You are right. I thought we'd watch the sun set while you tell me what happened the day you were abducted."
Her heart pulsed. The fingers she
wanted stilled trembled against her knee. She counted in silence until she couldn't keep her peace. "Take me home."
"Amora, we need to talk away from distractions." His voice sounded sad and held an awful note of pity. "If you're not able, I don't know how--"
Fourteen, fifteen. "Don't." She lifted her face and stopped numbering nail heads in the floorboards. "Don't use that tone, ever. I can't stand it."
"Then tell me what happened. How did he take you? I have to know."
"Why? So you can tell me how my stubbornness betrayed me? How daft I was being out alone? I do that daily."
"Amora, I've prosecuted a few abduction cases. It shouldn't be the woman's fault if she's tricked or taken by force. I know with no doubt that you didn't agree."
"That's not how the law goes. Papa and I came to some of your early trials before your enlistment. Any consent is consent."
"You came to one?" A smile over took his lips. That spark made his grey eyes bloom again. "I know you didn't agree. Tell me what happened." He leaned over and calmed her fingers. "Tell me how the man stole your joy."
She knocked away his hands and folded her arms. "What do you mean?"
"You don't smile, not very often. I thought it was me who took it, but I believe whatever you lived through claimed it. Your joy and your smile are in your abductor's pocket. Trust me enough to tell me what happened that day. Nothing will hurt again. I'm here for you now."
The monster couldn't have any more of her. None. But neither could Barrington.
The carriage stopped. Without another thought, she pressed on the door and trudged outside. Luckily, they weren't near the Tour, the part of the large park where the fashionable needed to be seen. She didn't want to be seen. No one should judge her anymore.
She crossed a pebbled stretch then stopped, looking into the murky waters of the Serpentine. The setting sun made the surface a swirl of red and orange.
"The water has thawed." Barrington plodded close, scooped up a stone and skipped it across the surface. The rock bounced four times, then sank deep below. "It's very cold, but after a few minutes, you won't care. Harriet Westbrook drowned here. She killed her unborn child too."
A shudder ran up Amora's spine. The fight to stay above the waters of Clanville came to her mind. Her skin pimpled.
An arm came about her shoulder. She turned and gripped it hard, clutching it as if it were the branch that kept her from falling immediately into the Clanville River.
"You won't do it. I've got you. It's good you're done playing with water."
Amora shook free. "I didn't jump off that cliff to punish you."
"I know. You are a strong woman, Amora. A clod like me can't make you so desperate that dying seems better. Tell me why you didn't stay on that portico."
She couldn't look at him. Couldn't say aloud the weakness she'd almost surrendered to.
"Amora, however the monster took you, you did nothing to deserve it. Tell me what happened. I need the clues to find Sarah."
Hot tears slipped her lashes. "I don't remember much. I'd argued with Mama, grabbed my paints, and slipped from the house."
"What was the time of day?"
She pressed her temples. "Late in the evening, a couple of hours before sunset."
He nodded, his chin bussing her bonnet. "What did you paint?"
Pictures of trees cluttered her head, spinning images of green and brown. Her pulse thundered. She felt light-headed, weak.
Maybe Barrington caught her or maybe she turned and fell into him, but she was in his arms, safe and warm against his greatcoat.
"That time is over. We're just gathering the facts."
"It's not over for me. I'm still there in that cellar every night. Sometimes Sarah's there. Sometimes not, but I hear the others."
"What others?"
"I wasn't the first or the last person my abductor took. There were more. I heard them all screaming for help, and I could do nothing but wait my turn." Her throat clogged with sobs and violent shakes seized her body. "They still cry out at me, but I couldn't give in to the monster to stop him. I couldn't help them. I couldn't."
Barrington brought her head deeper into his chest. Very slowly, he tightened his arms about her. "A madman's wrath, it's not your fault. Oh God, help her to know it's not her fault."
Amora pushed back from his safety. "But it is!" Her voice warbled, everything seemed wobbly but she had to confess. "He…he made me his pet and said he'd stop hurting the girls if I would be his. I couldn't do it. I had promised you to stay yours and only yours."
He put a hand to her neck, stroking the strain in the muscles. "You can't control the monster. I've seen this type of evil in the courts. That hate-filled hunger won't be quenched. It must be stopped."
"My abductor hurt them all, even Sarah. My fault."
She pushed free, refusing to look into Barrington's eyes. Where was the carriage? Where. Blinded by tears, she trudged forward. She'd beg James to take her back to Mayfair.
A strong arm grabbed her about her middle and spun her around. She struggled but couldn't fight his strength. The rich smell of bergamot on Barrington's skin calmed her. She stilled and let Barrington hold her.
"Your dense vicar said you were haunted by the terror of the villain, but that can't be. You're the bravest woman I know."
That was a lie. Palms flat, she beat against his chest. The iron wouldn't give. It became stronger. He drew her off her feet, burying her against his starched cravat, beneath the layers of his tailcoat's smooth wool. His bergamot scent became stronger kissing her nose. The memories of awaking in Barrington's arms, safe and warm overwhelmed her. Tired, so tired of fighting, she slumped against him.
"It's guilt that keeps you in bondage. Guilt over the girls you couldn't save. Guilt because you are alive, when Miss Druby, Gerald Miller's poor girl, isn't."
"I am guilty and no one can end my sentence." She tugged free again and took a few steps toward the pond.
"I live that guilt, Amora. Every time I shave my chin, I know my friend Miller isn't. I have dreams. I see him, the man who loved me like a brother, jumping into the bullet's path. I witness the blood, the withering of his face."
Gerald Miller and Barrington were very close. Miller followed him into the service. "At least he died honorably, not consumed by a villain."
"No, Amora, but he was brave like you."
"I'm not that brave or I'd jump in that pond and make all the hurting go away. I just don't know if the hereafter is any better. Maybe it's constant torment. Maybe Isis is waiting in a garden for me."
He grabbed her arms and swung her around, away from the pond. "God, the true God would not be pleased. Neither would I."
"The same One that took Papa? The One that killed our babe?" She cocked her head to the side to watch the emotions sweeping across his face. "The One that doomed us?"
His lip twitched. A tremble set in his cheek.
"He's not pleased with me, Barrington. How much worse could it get?"
"I'm not a theologian. I'm a barrister. Taking your life is the easy way out. It takes guts to live. It takes a stomach of iron to uncover the identity of the monster. Together, we can locate him and set the sword of the law upon his head."
"How is one to do that? How?"
"If we can get the fiend to justice or at least blacken his name, it will lift up all his victims. It will make Sarah, wherever she is, a truth-teller. Miss Druby's parents will have a villain's identity to soothe their pain. That's how we help them, and we can do it together."
She squinted at Barrington. The setting sun shrouded his silhouette as if he wore gleaming armor.
"Let's return to the carriage."
They walked back in silence. When they arrived at the carriage, Barrington put his hands onto her hips, and with firm fingers, hoisted her inside. "I have a lantern so we can stay for a while even in the dark. Or I'll take you back now, if this is too much."
Not sure she could face her mother or the vicar with her though
ts jumbled, she nodded her consent. Yet, as the world dimmed outside, her breath caught. Other patches of air wouldn't come down. She hit at her chest to make her lungs work. "Hurry with the light."
He caught her hands. "One, two, three like a waltz, sniff some air. One, two, three. Like when we dance."
She peered out the window and counted twinkling jewels, a night's sky of stars blinking to his rhythm. Pulse slowing, she slipped free from his too comforting hands and leaned back along the bench.
"I found you one evening about to fall asleep on the floor. Is it better there?"
The hoot of a distant owl, a cricket's chirping seeped through the walls. Weren't those the noises that had comforted her in the dark root cellar? She pulled her knees onto the seat and laid her head upon them. The music of the creatures lulled her. "I don't know, but Sarah would hum just like you."
"This woman possessed a deep masculine voice?"
"No."
He struck the lamp and the light glowed in the dark compartment. "Continue."
"We'd sleep on the ground back to back, in a feeble attempt to protect ourselves. You could hear the monster's breathing, his watching us."
A rush of heat surrounded her, turning her stomach. She pushed at her straw bonnet, allowing her forehead to cool. "If I get sick on you, know that I don't mean to."
"Couldn't be much worse than when you threw dinner at me." A chortle rumbled in his chest as he loosened his neck cloth. "The night is not so bad. Remember the nightingale? It sang for us in the moonlight. Goodness, I love balconies. It reminds me of the first time I kissed you."
She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured Barrington on that balcony. His voice mirrored that time, filled with peaks and valleys, maybe a little nervousness.
He cleared his throat. "Your nightingale. It's my favorite of all your works. I kept it and the one you made from ash."
Stomach twisting, she watched the lantern. Hints of blue and orange swirled about the charred wick. Was he intentionally keeping the flame low?"
"Be at ease, dear girl." Barrington began to hum again. His voice was deep and sweet to her ears. The rhythm, the cadence, it was the same beat with which he helped her to gain air.
Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 2) Page 9