Vengeful Lord, Defiant Lady.

by Maggie Pritchard

  ‘Evans, I have a letter to write to Mama, so will be in my parlour, if I should be needed. His lordship and the young gentlemen will be in shortly from the stables so will you see to it that hot possets are ready to be served in the drawing room please.’

  ‘Yes milady, cook has baked some of the spiced pies his lordship is so fond of too.’

  ‘Oh good, for a man who is not over fond of sweetmeats, I am amazed at how many of those he has enjoyed these last few days.’

  Evans smiled, something he did with regularity these days.

  ‘Shall I bring you some tea milady?’

  ‘Mm that would be nice Evans, and maybe a few of those sugared biscuits, though goodness knows I will have to watch how many of those I eat if I am not to get quite fat.’

  Catherine made for the peaceful little haven of her parlour, sinking with a sigh into her favourite seat by the window. It framed the view of the estate stretching to the distant mountains that she had fallen in love with. At first she’d seen it in all its summer glory, lush and green, rolling landscape studded with oaks, majestic with summer leaf. She’d watched it change with the onset of autumn, green giving way to a riot of yellows, browns and reds, the crisp leaf-litter fleeing the season’s brisk breezes to huddle in corners awaiting the gardener’s brush. Now winter seemed to have leached all that vibrancy and colour out of the land, leaving an ethereal, minimalist view of breathtaking beauty. The park was frosted to a soft grey reminiscent of faded sage leaves, and the distant mountains formed a dark, almost sinister backdrop that was echoed by the now naked oaks, as they reached their bare, black arms to the pale grey-blue of the December sky. Here and there the park’s deer grazed, made bold by lack of food but still keeping close to the bordering woodland to which they would flee at any sign of danger, every now and then they would raise their heads and scent the air, ever watchful. The changes wrought in this beloved view seemed echo the changes wrought in her life over the last few months.

  She’d arrived a reluctant bride, only to see past the facade of arrogance he wore and fall in love with her husband. She’d believed he returned that love too, at least until the revelations of the night of the fair, when everything had been thrown into disarray. Her father accused of seducing a girl half his age and thereby causing her to take her own life. Alex, her Alex, exposed as his torturer. A man so obsessed with revenge as to have wed her and used her as a tool for that revenge, not even the authors of the gothic novels of the time could have written such a plot. For a moment she relived those few dark days spent trying to salvage something from the chaos left by such revelations. Alex had made it quite clear she would remain at Llangorfan as his wife. There would be no escape, no turning back of the clock, and indeed how could there have been? She was his wife in law and under God, but that did not mean she would meekly bend to his will, oh no. She had set about two things with grim determination, firstly to mend the wrong done to the innocent child, her brother, shut away with Onesta like a shameful thing, and secondly to make her husband’s day to day life, previously ordered with naught but his comfort in mind, as bleak as possible. As he had filled her heart with the chill of a life robbed of the flavour of a loving marriage, so she would rob his of all comfort. Cold rooms, bland, badly cooked food and an empty bed were her revenge. She had no idea how long Alex would have let this state of affairs go on. As it was it lasted four days, four days before the acts of a ruthless gang led by an evil man had thrown Llangorfan and all who lived and worked there into hideous danger and in the process revealed secrets at once tragic and horrific that were to change all their lives forever.

  Catherine looked up as a maid entered with a tray of tea accompanied by a plate of crisp little biscuits. Helping herself to the fragrant brew, she settled back down in her seat and resumed her thoughts. She sighed, this was becoming a habit, she would come here with every intention of attending to a given task, but would find her mind unwilling to concentrate and instead would find herself going over the whole thing again in her mind. The fire, Alex, Tom and the horses so close to perishing in it. Her abduction and escape were all re-lived, and each time she found she was able to bear it a little better because all this was attributable to men who were either dead, killed that day, or hanged after. No these were not the thoughts that haunted her day after day. It was the implications of the day’s revelations that she found difficult to deal with.

  Barrington had been unmasked as the cause of Emily’s suicide. In his obsession to own Llangorfan he’d raped her, intending to force Alex to give him Llangorfan if he then wed her. Catherine had been incredulous, thinking he must have been mad not to see that his already having a wife would put paid to that plan, but they had learnt after his death that Lady Barrington was not, in actual fact, his wife, but an actress he had taken to live with him. The lady in question had been unmasked when she’d tried to take control of Beechgrove House as the grieving widow only to be thrown out by the Barrington cousin who was the real heir.

  These revelations had of course themselves thrown into confusion all assumptions regarding her father’s relationship with Emily and changed the status of her child. Not a brother born of a tender love but the result of a brutal assault on a girl of delicate sensibilities, the issue of an evil man. Once Catherine had recovered from her ordeal at Barrington’s hands, Alex had taken her home to see her family. It had taken a great deal of courage for her to face her father, and to hear what he had to say about his role in this, but with Alex by her side she had borne it. Listened to the tragic story told by her beloved Papa and found his crime to be simply one of falling in love. He had fought it he told them, but his Emily was so lovely and so determined to love him, it had been hopeless. He had never acted wrongly apart from a few illicit meetings and had left, despite her pleas, returning home to his wife and family. She had written, firstly imploring him to return to her, and then later, her letters had been frantic, fearful though she had never written of her pregnancy or of the child. When her letters had stopped it had been both a relief and a worry, he confided in them and then Alex had arrived, bringing hell with him.

  They three along with Dorothea and Charles had determined that none of this should ever become known to Mama, it was some consolation to the sisters that she at least was to be spared.

  Catherine had expected that her feelings for Emiliano would change. Would she now see Barrington reflected in his features? Would she be able to forget who his father was and the awful truth of his conception? It was with trepidation that she entered the nursery where he slept for the first time after learning the truth, but on looking down on him her feelings were the same. The same flood of love rushed through her, the same urge to pick him up and smell the sweet baby smell of him, the same need to see his pretty blue eyes light up with love for her. So she simply smiled, stroked his face and thanked God.

  It was not so easy to forget Barrington’s other crimes. Alex had done his best to keep the truth from her and it was only her insistence on knowing, fueled by her overhearing part of a conversation between Waring and Edgar, that eventually led to his giving her the awful facts of the gang’s operations. Alex had begun the story on the day he’d first seen her, riding Romany at the gypsy encampment. Something sat uneasily in his mind about the tableau he’d witnessed that day and it was not simply his reaction to seeing his prospective bride-to-be in such improper circumstances. On returning home he’d written some letters, making enquiries, and soon learnt of a spate of horse thefts in the south of England, the latest of which was of a black thoroughbred belonging to the Earl of Wardley. It was too much of a coincidence to ignore, no gypsy could afford a horse of such quality. It had taken some weeks to organise, that the four of them with the blessing of the Home Secretary should follow this lead and attempt to catch the thieves. They trailed the gypsy troop to Cornwall, but it was too late to save the Earl’s thoroughbred. Within two months he’d been sold and stolen back four times across the south of the country, before being shot and du
mped in a quarry. The same week Roxton’s bay mare had been taken from barely four miles away and the gang moved northwards. Alex believed they moved the horses from fair to fair with the gypsy encampment, and he’d tracked the sales of Roxton’s bay after she was stolen from Cornwall. She’d first been sold at a fair outside Bristol, which was where they’d made the shocking discovery of Barrington’s involvement. The next time she turned up at auction was at a small country fair a little south of Worcester, before Alex bought her at the Pant-y-Bryn fair. He and his compatriots had planned to put their plan into action by the time she was being sold for the third time, it was too risky to wait any longer, and of course she knew the rest.

  Catherine had sobbed for hours on learning of Romany’s fate. She’d loved him dearly though he’d only been at the encampment a few days. She was sure she would never quite get over the horror of his fate. She realized now that Jem Cutler knowing her weakness for riding and her fondness for horses had used him to lure her to the camp. Alex had been quite sure he meant to have her by any means he could, and if not for her unexpected wedding he might have succeeded.

  Slowly life had returned to normality for the inhabitants of Llangorfan. Tales of ghostly babies were a thing of the past, Emiliano and a new nanny were ensconced in the nursery to allow Onesta to take her rightful place in the family. It had taken a while, but she was now blooming into the lovely girl that looked set to steal Henry Waring’s heart this Christmas. Catherine had ceased her campaign of discomfort against Alex; she had no heart for it now. She had tried to distance herself from her husband, but it was useless. Every time he walked into the room, he lit up her life, she could not help but love him, indeed she acknowledged, she had never stopped. He on the other hand was quiet, aloof, remote even. When he spoke to her it was with quiet solicitude and Catherine found herself wishing he would be angry, it was easier to bear. The nights were particularly long and difficult, she had become accustomed to his attention, and sleeping alone was making her quite irritable. She dreamt of him, of the scent of him, of being held in his arms, touching him, being touched by him, kissed by him. Then she would wake alone and unhappy, her body and mind craving him. She wrote to Dorothea of her sadness at the loss of his love and of her own growing affection for him. Day by day she saw his good qualities in everything he did. In the way he ran the estate, in the way he was with Emiliano, warm, gentle and loving in spite of everything, and in the warm affection his friend obviously felt for him. Yet for her he could not find it in his heart to be more than polite, always careful of her comfort, always ready to see that everything she desired was found for her. In one thing and one thing only did he cross her, still he forbade her from riding. He would not even discuss the matter. All this she wrote to Dorothea, who wrote to comfort her by return.

  “Dearest Catherine.” Dorothea wrote, “...It grieves me to read your letter and I worry that you are unable to confide in your husband, for in whom else should a wife confide? You rightly do not entrust me with the detail of the marital conflict that has come between you, but I need no such detail to be concerned for your happiness dearest sister. I am completely assured that you must be the one to mend this, Sir Alex will not be capable of such bending, of such softness, men are not, they are made differently to us dear Catherine. You have assured me that your regard for your husband has changed, that where once there was fear and rebellion in your heart, now love and high regard reign. If this is truly so, then you must go to him and offer these gifts to him. I beseech you to do this without delay so that when I visit this Christmas I may look upon your happiness.

  I remain your ever loving sister, Dorothea.”

  Catherine read and re-read that last page of the letter, carrying it with her in her purse wherever she went. She spent many hours thinking the problem through. Should she approach her husband as Dorothea insisted? If so what form should this approach take? How could she broach the subject, was she brave enough to reveal her love to a man who might reject it? Where would that leave her? Oh it was such a dilemma, but she was sure of one thing, she loved him, and she must deal with this come what may, this night. She could not face the merriment of the holiday not knowing, and Dorothea would surely notice if she did nothing, given the strained atmosphere between them.

  She reached for the letter, meaning to read it once more, just once more, to be certain then she would go to find Alex and have done with it once and for all, but the letter was not there! She checked again, but her purse was empty, then she remembered while she’d been supervising the decorating this morning Scrap had been playing around her feet and for a few moments the naughty little scamp had found her purse on the seat where she’d left it and had been playing with it. Shaking it and growling at it in the most comical fashion until she and the servants were laughing too much to scold him. It was Guto who had eventually crawled under the furniture to capture the pup and recover her purse. The letter must have been shaken loose and even now might be discovered by anyone passing through the hallway.

  Catherine made her way with haste to the now deserted room, but despite looking around and under every piece of furniture she was unable to find the letter. Maybe she was mistaken, maybe it had been left in her bureau by mistake, oh well, she had no time now to look further for it. If she was to confront Alex she would have to go and prepare herself, for the only time he would be alone again today would be in about an hour, when he came in from the stables and went to change for dinner. Her heart beat fast in her chest, but still determined, she made her way to her chamber. She would confront him looking her best, her most beguiling, then if he rejected her, she would be in no doubt that he did not return her love.

  ‘Well Edgar, what do you think of her? The best thoroughbred mare this side of the channel and I had the devil of a job to get her. I’ll not tell you what I paid, it would put you off your dinner.’

  ‘I can well imagine, Rockston’s stable breeds the best but he’s not known for selling em cheap. Did he give you a little off for rescuing his bay mare?’

  Alex gave a short dry laugh.

  ‘Not a penny, he was more than a bit put out to hear we’d known where she was for weeks and that she’d been at risk all that time.’

  Henry Waring ran loving hands over the mare’s neck causing her to snicker and snuffle in search of an apple.

  ‘She’s a little big for a lady Alex, a full sixteen hands and spirited to boot.’

  His companions guffawed, laughing that he could doubt Lady Tremayne’s seat on a horse after her adventure on the Arab stallion.

  They were all still in high spirits as they re-entered the house, each heading up to change in time for a much anticipated dinner. They’d been riding all afternoon and had worked up sharp appetites. Alex watched them go, good men all, good friends too, just the sort a man wanted watching his back. Restless, he made is way into the drawing room, it was a little early to change for dinner, he did not need hours to make himself ready like Edgar and the younger men did. Pouring himself a glass of wine he settled in the chair beside the roaring fire, relaxing as the heat seeped into his tired limbs. He was tired from riding, and riding hard every day, and he rode hard to try to assuage the need that dominated his every waking hour. The need to mend the growing gulf that pushed him further from Kate every day. The desperate need to hold her to touch her, taste her that was surely going to drive him to an early grave if he did not find a solution soon. He loved her, but how could she feel anything for a man who had used her as he had. She’d made her feelings quite clear the night of the fair, and he could not blame her, even more so now that the truth had been revealed and shown him to have been so very wrong in his accusations against her father.

  He’d spent the last months doing everything he could to make sure she was happy, the only thing he’d held back on was the business of her riding. Determined to surprise her with the best mount money could buy. She’d not asked again, he knew she would not, as he also knew how deeply she missed it. She’d been brok
en hearted on learning of the stallion’s fate, and still she did not ask. She had not visited the newly refurbished stables, he knew because he asked Tom to let him know if she did. She spent her time here in the house, running it with efficient precision, thankfully with his comfort once more in mind. The mare was bought now and she would be his Christmas gift to his lady.

  The visit home had restored her spirits and her love for Emiliano and the boy Guto seemed to be all she needed, that and the antics of her funny little spaniel. Then as he thought of the animal, as if by magic it made an appearance, settling itself on the hearth as if to keep him company. Reaching down he tickled its ears and Scrap stretched out, rolling over in appreciation.

  Tomorrow, Christmas Eve he would give Kate her gift. The jet black thoroughbred mare he’d paid Roxton a fortune for just yesterday. Then after the festivities he’d make London his home, spend some time away, to see if he could get a grip on this fever for her that was tearing him apart. She would be happy here with those others who loved her about her, it would be best. He drained his glass and rose to leave when he noticed that Scrap had moved too, his little bottom stuck out comically from under the sideboard as he pushed head and shoulders underneath in an attempt to reach something.

  ‘Here little man, let me help.’

  Alex pulled the pup out by his fat little rump and reached underneath for whatever he was trying to find. His hand met with paper, and as he pulled it out he recognized it for a letter, somewhat chewed by the pup, but on the whole readable. Intrigued he re-claimed his seat beside the fire and commenced to read. It was a letter, or to be more precise the last page of a letter to Catherine from her sister Dorothea. For a split second Alex considered if he should read it, but curiosity won and he scanned the page. His breath stilled in his chest, and he settled back in the chair to read it again, slowly, taking in all it meant, and the meaning was crystal clear. “ ...where once there was fear and rebellion in your heart, now love and high regard reign.” She loved him, had written to Dorothea of it, his heartbeat soared, she loved him! Dear God months of misery, and for what? Misplaced pride and a plethora of silly misunderstandings. But why had she not taken the advice in the letter and come to him? She’d obviously read and re-read this one page else how had it been detached from the rest of the latter? Did it matter? He, now that he knew, could go to her, could make this right. He stood, picked up Scrap, who was bouncing around trying to retrieve his prize, ruffled his ears and deposited him on the seat in front of the fire.