October Revenge

by Farmer, Merry

  “So you’ve been told?” A feeling of dread filled Angelica’s gut.

  “She died when I was four,” Mark said without emotion—or rather with a wealth of bottled emotion that hardened the shell she was beginning to sense all around him. “In childbirth with my sister,” he added. “The baby did not survive.”

  “Did you have any other siblings?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “No,” he answered as though discussing whether he took lemon in his tea. He didn’t look at her. He stared straight ahead instead.

  “Were you raised by your father then?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered with equal dispassion.

  She wanted to know so much more but sensed that she needed to proceed with extreme caution. They walked right through the rose garden and onto a path that led through a lawn and down a slope toward the river.

  “Did your father ever remarry?” she asked.

  “No,” he answered with one syllable, hesitated, then said, “His health began to decline when I was twelve.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, a sense of foreboding about what had happened next filling her. “Were you close?”

  “Very,” Mark answered, a hint of emotion entering his tone at last. His stiff posture relaxed a bit as they walked. “We spent a great deal of time together. He taught me about art. We would pore over catalogs of great artwork together. He taught me to play chess and cards as well.”

  “Those sound like happy memories.”

  “They are,” he agreed. “I attended Eton, but Father would call me home early and send me back late because he preferred to have me by his side, especially later.”

  Angelica held his arm tightly, wanting him to go on, but knowing she couldn’t push.

  “My father was the wisest man I’ve ever known,” he continued at last, not much louder than a whisper. “The advice he gave me on everything from my studies to caring for wildlife to dealing with the servants was priceless. He taught me that it was better to remain silent and to let others think of you what they would than to reveal too much. He also taught me that it was better to keep an enemy in sight than to turn your back on them for even a second.”

  His words ended in a deep frown and a long moment of bristling silence. Angelica found herself holding her breath, wondering about all the ways Mark had used that advice over the years.

  When the silence had stretched on too long, she said, “I barely knew my father, but Grandpa Miles was a wise man too.”

  “I always admired him,” Mark said, coming out of himself a bit. “Though he moved to America when I was only ten. We corresponded for years, though, until….” His words faded and he didn’t go on.

  “He spoke of you from time to time,” Angelica said, drawing Mark’s attention. “Not much, but enough so that I knew you existed. He was proud of his great nephew at Oxford.”

  Angelica expected a smile at those words, but instead a haunted look came to Mark’s eyes. He turned away from her, staring straight forward as they neared the river. The path curved to follow alongside the rushing water. The river’s banks were flooded from all the rain, and the water gurgled as it sped along. Trees with leaves halfway through changing color stretched out over the banks or along the slope. In the distance Angelica could make out a springhouse or a boathouse—some sort of structure made of stone.

  “My father died toward the end of my first semester at Oxford,” Mark said at last.

  “I’m so sorry,” Angelica said.

  She felt Mark’s whole body tense. “He died right when I needed him the most,” he said in a tight hush.

  Angelica didn’t know what to say. She had intended for their walk to be a way to learn more about him, not for their conversation to torment him, but that was the impression she was left with. Guilt pinched her. She looked around for a way to change the subject and lighten the mood.

  “I haven’t had proper exercise since stepping foot on the ship in New Orleans,” she said, letting go of Mark’s arm and striding over to a cluster of rocks at the foot of a tree where the path had been partially carved into the hillside. “I feel as though I need to make up for lost time.”

  Mark said nothing. He clasped his hands behind his back and watched her, his face pale and his expression troubled, as she picked up a stone roughly the size of a cricket ball. She walked back to the path, then hurled the stone into the river with her full strength. Mark’s brow flew up at the distance she managed to throw.

  “I’m impressed,” he said.

  Angelica returned to the cluster of rocks and chose another, larger one. “You’d be surprised how effective it is for building up one’s strength simply to throw rocks.” She chucked the second rock into the river as hard as she could, delighting in the way it stretched and tested her muscles. She returned to find another rock and threw that one into the river with her left hand.

  “I believe the Scots used rocks and logs for military training when the English forbid them to drill,” Mark said as he watched her.

  “They did,” she grinned, choosing a rock from the pile that she had to lift with two hands. “They disguised their strength training as games. I’ve also found that throwing rocks relieves quite a bit of frustration.” She underlined her point by hurling the rock with her full strength and grunting in a supremely unladylike manner as she did.

  “Is that so?” Mark asked. He stepped over to the pile to search for a suitable rock as she did.

  “There have been many, many times when I have expelled copious amounts of frustration by throwing rocks into the Mississippi,” she said, panting a bit from her last rock, and choosing another, formidable one.

  She returned to the river and put her whole back into throwing the rock. It felt wonderful to be able to use her muscles at last instead of sitting primly, like a caged animal.

  Mark had chosen a rock the size of a small ball, which he threw into the river with vigor. A look of satisfaction filled his face as he let go and puffed out a breath. He didn’t say anything, but Angelica could tell the exercise agreed with him.

  “See,” she said. “It’s good for the muscles and the mind.”

  He nodded and walked back to the pile of rocks, selected another one, and hurled that into the river with all his might, exhaling as he did. His gaze stayed fixed on the rushing river as the rock splashed and disappeared beneath the surface. Slowly, his expression changed from careful banality to something Angelica could only describe as pain. He bent to pick up another, bigger rock, then launched it into the river with a louder exhale. His expression darkened further, and he reached for another rock, every muscle in his body visibly tensing. He threw that rock with far more vigor and frustration than the others.

  Within seconds, what had started as exercise and relief morphed into something else entirely. Angelica could see it in the increasingly pinched lines of Mark’s face, in the growing tension and stress in his body. He picked up rock after rock, throwing them into the river faster and harder. Each one splashed into the raging current as if it were breaking through the shell he’d constructed around himself. His hat flew off, and he didn’t seem to notice. He grunted as he threw, and those grunts swiftly turned to sounds that were both shouts and sobs.

  At last, he picked up a rock with two hands, lifted it over his head, and flung it into the river with a furious shout of, “You bastard!”

  He reeled back, gasping for breath and unable to hold still. Angelica watched him with a hand pressed to her stomach, blinking rapidly to hold back tears of shock and sympathy, even though she was baffled by what could have had him so upset. Mark jabbed a hand through his hair, chest heaving as he paced back and forth with restless steps. Angelica flinched as he bent suddenly forward, gripping his knees and dropping his head with a painful moan. She didn’t know whether she should help him or let him be.

  Mark straightened suddenly and marched away from her, as if she weren’t there, walking swiftly back along the path. Angelica let him go. Her he
art ached within her. She didn’t know how to begin to describe what was happening to him, but she had the distinct feeling she’d walked into his life in the middle of a crisis. No friends, no family, no company but a cat he’d rescued from…someone. She wished she’d thought to ask the name of the acquaintance who had killed the rest of Styx’s family.

  Either way, she was consumed with the feeling that she had to do something, that she’d arrived in the nick of time. She was attracted to him instead of repulsed by him. It was almost enough to make her laugh, especially considering how prickly Mark was. Perhaps Grandpa Miles hadn’t played a vicious trick on her. Perhaps the old man had known exactly what he was doing in his will.

  Chapter 4

  Angelica was determined to give Mark the privacy he needed to face whatever demons he’d been throwing stones at by the river. She spent the rest of her morning in a vigorous walk around the grounds of Blackmoor Close on her own, pausing to engage in a series of callisthenic exercises in the shade of the small woods ringing the property. Her hope was that a few hours of peace and contemplation would restore her intended to a sense of calm.

  But when she returned to the house for luncheon, Mark was nowhere to be seen.

  “Will I be dining alone?” she asked the footman who served her soup in the breakfast room—it would have been ridiculous for her to eat alone, or even to eat with Mark, in the vast dining room.

  The anxious footman glanced to Mr. Baxter, who stood as a sentry near the doorway.

  “Lord Gatwick is indisposed this afternoon,” Mr. Baxter said.

  “Oh.” Angelica didn’t feel as though it was appropriate to say more.

  She spent the afternoon poring through the books in Blackmoor’s library, then selected one to read outside in the shade of a tree planted at the corner of the rose garden. Her thoughts had a hard time focusing on Dickens when thoughts of Mark wouldn’t leave her. Had she done the right thing by prompting him to throw stones and release whatever he’d been bottling up? No one, man or woman, reacted to a simple pastime with so much emotion unless they had a whole cellar of bottles lined up in their soul. Was the bastard Mark referred to in his shouting the same acquaintance who had drowned the kittens at Mark’s house party? She was certain of it. But if Mark hated the man—she was certain it was a man—so much, why had he invited him to his home?

  Her questions remained unanswered as Mark was absent for supper as well. Mr. Baxter was adamant that Angelica enjoy her repast in the formal dining room, as was expected, but the moment she learned Mark would not be joining her, she instructed Mr. Baxter and his footman to bring her supper to her room. She ate alone in the far more comfortable space, but each bite was seasoned with confusion and questions.

  By the next day, she was still without answers. It was sunny once again, so after a solitary breakfast, Angelica took herself outside for a morning of brisk exercise. She told herself that it was vital she remain patient. Tormented souls rarely settled themselves after one day of introspection. She knew that better than anyone else. The idea that Mark, too, was suffering from a fear as great as that which followed her around had grabbed hold and wouldn’t leave. Fear required patience.

  She continued to tell herself that as she lifted heavy branches off the forest path and did bits of work that a groundskeeper should have done in order to keep her arms up to strength. She’d learned the hard way that physical weakness was a liability in a world where men saw women as their right, as prey. She refused to let the danger she’d fallen into once before sneak up on her a second time.

  By the afternoon, however, her patience was at an end.

  “Where is Lord Gatwick?” she asked Mr. Baxter in the foyer when she returned from her exercise.

  Mr. Baxter looked somewhat embarrassed as he said, “Lord Gatwick continues to be indisposed.”

  Angelica huffed out a breath and crossed her arms. “I had no idea an earl could have such a poor constitution,” she said with irony in her tone.

  Mr. Baxter shifted anxiously, glancing up the stairs to the hallway across from the one that led to the room she’d been given. “Lord Gatwick is in a delicate situation at the moment,” he said.

  Angelica would have scolded the man for being obtuse if there hadn’t been a good deal of concern in his expression. Mark’s staff cared for him. They were protective of him. It was a good sign. Grandpa Miles had always told her that you could determine a man’s character by how he treated his inferiors and how they treated him.

  “I don’t suppose you could elaborate on that situation,” she said without any expectation that he would.

  “No, miss,” Mr. Baxter said with an apologetic half bow.

  “You’re a good man, Mr. Baxter,” she said, shaking her head and letting her arms drop. “I believe Lord Gatwick is lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you, miss,” Mr. Baxter said with a deeper bow.

  Angelica gave him a final smile before turning and heading up the stairs, veering off to the opposite hall from the one she was sure Mark hid down. She needed to change gowns and freshen up after her morning.

  But as she ran a sponge over her body and dried herself off, her impatient curiosity refused to leave. Whatever fear troubled Mark, she was certain it would be easier to bear if he shared it. Particularly with her. She had no intention of leaving Blackmoor Close and every intention of becoming Mark’s wife, whether he liked it or not. It was that or struggle to find a way to start over with very few resources in a world that provided few opportunities to women and even fewer to those of mixed race. Mark was her hope for the sort of life she wanted, and she would not be denied. And for the first time in a long time, he was a man in a position to dominate her who she wasn’t afraid of. Not when she sensed they were on such equal footing.

  As soon as she was dressed, her hair brushed and plaited and secured in a simple bun, she headed back out to the hall. The house was nearly silent in the afternoon. Wherever Mr. Baxter and the other servants were, they made no noise as they worked. Angelica wasn’t inclined to make noise either, particularly since she suspected neither Mark nor Mr. Baxter would approve of what she intended to do. She tip-toed across the landing at the top of the stairs and scurried as quietly as she could down the opposite hall.

  From Grandpa Miles’s descriptions, she knew the east wing of the house was smaller than the north. It contained family bedrooms and was far less grandly decorated than the section of the house where guests stayed. One of the bedrooms had to be Mark’s. She was certain that was where he was hiding.

  One by one, she cracked open the doors along the hall, poking her head inside. Most of the rooms she encountered were empty, their furnishings covered with muslin cloth to protect them from dust. One room about halfway down the hall had no such coverings. It was a finely-appointed bedroom with a decidedly masculine air. The large, four-poster bed looked hundreds of years old. It’s blue, velvet curtains were bunched near the head and looked as though they hadn’t been drawn in decades, but the bedclothes seemed relatively new, and yet un-slept-in. A washstand and wardrobe made up the rest of the room’s furnishings, along with a chair that sat near a large, cold fireplace. The washstand held a razor and shaving soap along with a hairbrush.

  There was no doubt in Angelica’s mind that she’d discovered Mark’s room, but he wasn’t there. She bit her lip and pulled back into the hall with a frown. If he wasn’t in his room, then where was he?

  She continued her search for an answer, discovering more rooms that were as quiet as tombs as she proceeded down the hall. Nothing in the house seemed to be awake, as if it were part of the tale of Sleeping Beauty, waiting to be awakened by love’s first kiss. The whole thing left Angelica with an unsettled feeling.

  When she reached the end of the hall, she sniffed and had a sudden notion of what she might find behind the last door. She recognized the scents of turpentine and paint. Sure enough, when she inched the door open, an entire artist’s studio was revealed.

  She gasped as
she stepped into the room. Sunlight streamed down through a pair of tall windows at the far side, filling the room with just the sort of light she assumed artists craved for their work. And the room was jammed full of work. Every inch of the walls was hung with paintings ranging from life-sized to no bigger than her hand. More canvases were stacked against the walls, overlapping each other. A cabinet of paint and supplies stood near the door, and an easel with a half-finished painting rested near the windows along with a small table and chairs. But it was the art itself that had Angelica’s jaw dropping and her stomach filling with butterflies.

  From every canvas, the same face stared back at her. A woman. A young woman. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, if that. She had a fair complexion, golden-brown hair, and hazel eyes. Her cheeks were round and rosy and her nose was narrow. The term “British rose” sprung instantly to Angelica’s mind. But in the few paintings that showed more than just the woman’s face and head, she was wearing simple clothes, not high fashion.

  But there was more to the images plastered across the room than just the woman’s pretty face. She was tormented. She was in pain. Not one of the paintings depicted her happy and smiling. In some, her eyes were wet with tears. In others, her features were twisted in pain. In some she was screaming. The paintings demonstrated a variety of styles—from the sharp realism of the Neo-Classical masters to the emphasis on light of the Impressionists—but the intensity of emotion in each one was so fierce that Angelica clasped a hand to her heart, swallowing to keep her own emotions at bay.

  Mark had painted them. She was certain within an instant, though none of the canvases were signed. She would never have guessed that he practiced art along with collecting it and knowing about it. But there was no other explanation, particularly as the painting on the easel was still wet. Mark had been explicit about how long it had been since he’d had guests in one of their brief, idle conversations, which meant no other artist could be present. Unless he had a spare artist locked in the unused rooms of Blackmoor, which she doubted.