Later that day, after Vicky’s father had left for London, she ventured into the garden. She had made sure to tell him her version of what had occurred on the estate grounds early that morning. He had said little, other than echoing her own thoughts that Tom’s arrival had been fortuitous. Thankfully, he’d spared her a lecture on the stupidity of chasing after masked men, but she supposed that due more to distraction on his part than oversight. Or perhaps he’d thought she’d endured enough for one day.
Vicky’s father had ridden off on his gray Thoroughbred with determination etched on his brow. Things looked bleak now, but Vicky knew they had nothing to worry about. Her papa could fix almost every problem—it was a trait on which he took great pride.
The village doctor had come and gone, proclaiming Vicky well enough for a slow walk if she wished, but had cautioned her against riding or other exertion for at least a week.
The estate shepherd had reported that six sheep had died before he could reverse the bloat. At least they’d saved most of the flock. The shepherd said they would have lost far more if not for her efforts to rebuild the wall, but Vicky couldn’t celebrate. The events of the day and the idea of those dead sheep offset whatever sense of accomplishment she usually felt after doing good for the estate.
Usually Vicky collected her thoughts while strolling the boxwood-lined, pebbled paths of the kitchen garden, but today she paced without seeing any of it. She collapsed onto an iron bench and rubbed at her eyes. But they flew open as her mind flashed to the image of Althea’s face crumpling when she’d broken into tears this morning.
Althea had retired to her bedroom after the meeting in the study, and thus far, she had seen no one besides their mother and the doctor. Vicky’s maid had told her Althea had taken breakfast, and later some broth, alone in her room. Vicky hadn’t spoken to her since their earlier exchange.
Vicky’s gaze focused out into the distance, beyond the edge of the gardens, to the stream and the old wooden bridge that gave the estate its name. It was an eccentric family tradition that every Aston bride travel underneath the bridge in a flower-filled boat punted by her bridegroom. Only two years ago, Dain had punted Althea down the river with a self-satisfied smile. Vicky, her parents, and a gaggle of Aston relations who’d traveled from every corner of England to witness the event had stood on the bridge waving as Althea and Dain floated beneath them amid bunches of fragrant wildflowers.
Akin to a princess in a fairy tale, Althea had glowed with contentment that day, the light strands in her brown hair glinting in the sun beneath a crown of purple and white flowers. Vicky’s chest had ached as she’d realized her sister was leaving their home for good—that their lives would never be the same—but she’d found comfort in the idea that her sister was happy. For how could Althea do anything but live happily ever after now that she’d found her own amiable prince?
But she hadn’t. Althea had been close-lipped about her marriage from the beginning. When Vicky asked her questions, either in person, or by post, Althea always spoke in generalities, leaving the specifics of her day-to-day life to Vicky’s imagination. Had Althea glossed over the subject of her marriage because she was hiding the truth?
Vicky closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh scent of the hedges drying after months of rain. She had to discover exactly what had occurred between Althea and Dain.
She rose from the bench and strode back toward the house, clenching her fists at her sides at the memory of Dain whipping his horses when he’d brought them to Oakbridge. She knew that was a flaw many men shared, but perhaps it also explained why Vicky had never truly trusted him. She’d even mentioned it to Althea once, but her sister had shrugged it off.
Vicky swallowed hard, trying to ignore the churning in her stomach. She racked her brain for other instances of Dain displaying strange behavior, but very little came to mind.
After speaking to two footmen and an undergardener, Vicky found her sister wandering through the glass conservatory amidst the small selection of tropical flowers. Althea wore a walking dress Vicky remembered from before her marriage: a pale yellow, long-sleeved muslin printed with tiny pink flowers. In days gone by, the material had emphasized the roses in her cheeks and the burnished highlights in her hair, but today, the print could not conceal Althea’s pallor. The dress hung loosely on her shoulders. Vicky called her name from the doorway.
Althea flinched, a look of panic crossing her face. As she recognized Vicky, the fear melted from her expression. Yet her awkward stance called to mind the image of a doe about to bolt. Whether Althea was angry or simply uncomfortable, Vicky couldn’t guess.
Vicky took a deep breath to shore up her courage. The air within the glass walls of the conservatory always stayed humid, but today it felt oppressively so. She glanced up at the sun shining through the ceiling. She stepped down the path until she hovered a few feet from her sister and motioned to the flowers basking in the humidity.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” she asked. Perhaps idle chitchat would restore a measure of normalcy to the day.
Althea nodded.
“These ones are from seeds Papa bought years ago from that trader who had just returned from the West Indies. It took the gardener all this time to get them to bloom,” she said, bending down to touch the silky petals of a bright red saucer-shaped flower with a yellow stamen. “They’re so—so un-English, I suppose,” she said with a laugh. She looked up at Althea with a smile as the flower’s tropical perfume filled her nostrils.
Althea turned from the blossoms and looked outside.
Vicky rose, feeling like a little girl again. One trying to play with an older sister who claimed to be thoroughly grown-up. Evidently, polite conversation had been the wrong tack to take. Very well, how would Elizabeth Bennet handle this? She’d speak her mind to her sister Jane.
“Thea, if I’ve angered you, I’m very sorry.” She paused. “The last thing I wish to do is quarrel.”
Althea turned her head and gave a small nod. Vicky supposed that meant she’d accepted her apology.
“How are you feeling? What did the doctor say?” Vicky asked.
“That I am well enough.”
Vicky furrowed her brow. “And your head?” she asked, sidestepping so she was facing her.
“’Tis nothing,” Althea said, avoiding Vicky’s gaze. “He left a salve.”
“How can it be nothing?” Vicky reached up to move her sister’s hair away from where it shielded the bruise.
Althea twisted away and started down the path toward the small group of orange trees that provided the luxury of fruit during the winter months.
Vicky swallowed down the lump in her throat. She wanted to let the matter lie—to leave her sister to the privacy she so clearly craved, but Vicky needed to know more.
“Did it only begin recently? When you married him, and even at Christmas, you seemed happy. When did he change?”
Althea didn’t acknowledge her. She stared through the glass walls of the conservatory at some fixed point in the garden.
“Thea, please. I only want to help. But how can I if you won’t speak to me?” She stepped forward and rested her hand on her sister’s shoulder.
Althea spun, and the force knocked Vicky’s hand away.
Althea faced her with resentment in her eyes. In a stony voice she whispered, “Do not ask me to explain what you cannot understand. How could you possibly help?”
Vicky’s mouth opened and closed. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know. But if you do, you have only to ask and I’ll do it.”
“There is nothing. Even Papa will not be able to help me.”
Vicky frowned at her sister’s lack of faith in their father. “He will, Thea. And if for some unforeseeable reason he cannot, then I will.”
Althea glared at her.
Vicky stepped forward. “I promise I will do anything I can to keep you safe.”
Her sister looked down. “You know nothing of suffering—or of sacrifice. I am sick to my very so
ul of empty promises.”
Vicky’s chest constricted. She’d never once made her sister a false promise. But she knew who must have done. Althea may have escaped her husband, but Dain’s actions haunted her.
In that moment, Vicky swore she would not rest until Althea’s future was secure. She took her sister’s cold hand in hers and gripped it. “Thea, I give my word. I will not fail you.”
Althea caught her gaze.
Vicky stared back, unblinking. Then, for the smallest instant, Vicky thought she saw a glimmer of hope in her sister’s eyes.
Chapter the Third
I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter . . .
—Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Vicky breathed a sigh of relief as the carriage slowed. Although the journey to London from Oakbridge took less than a day, Vicky always dreaded the tedium of sitting for so long. She couldn’t read in carriages without growing ill, which left her at the mercy of her jumbled thoughts. Too many of those thoughts had centered on Tom’s reasons for not calling at Oakbridge House to see if she was recovering. At the very least, he could have sent a note to tell her what the magistrate had said. Yet judging by their history, she should have expected his silence.
She hadn’t truly believed she and Tom would pick up where they’d left off, but she had imagined that one day they could meet and converse as cordial adults. But if that wasn’t what he wanted, so be it! She had far more important considerations to contend with.
She shook her head as she stared out the carriage window at the four-story structure where the vehicle would soon stop. Aston House was one of the widest on Kingsford Square and was constructed almost entirely of cream-colored stone. A pair of fluted columns supporting a stone balcony flanked a tall, rectangular door. The balcony, in turn, supported four massive Corinthian columns that spanned the height of the second and third floors, drawing the eye up toward ornate cornicing set below the top floor. Though Aston House had always been their London home, Vicky had never felt wholly comfortable here. In her mind, the house had never acquired the coziness of Oakbridge.
She sighed inwardly. Perhaps it was because at Oakbridge she had the freedom to do as she pleased, whereas in London she had to conform to the rules of society. Although London boasted numerous diversions, within a week of arriving, Vicky always itched to ride over the green pastures of home and inhale the fresh country air.
Vicky sneaked a glance at her sister. Althea had grown more ashen and subdued the closer they’d come to London. Vicky, Althea, and their mother had left Oakbridge early that morning after receiving a letter from their father the night before. Throughout the day, Althea had shown little inclination to speak. Now she gazed out the carriage window facing the grass and bench-lined walkways of the square with an unreadable expression. Vicky wondered if she was looking for her husband.
The carriage stopped, and liveried footmen opened the doors. Vicky’s father met them in the foyer and embraced them one by one. Vicky asked what had passed between him and Lord Dain, but he would say nothing except that the family solicitor would call at the house in two hours. Vicky and the others hurried upstairs to bathe away the dust from the journey and ready themselves.
Two hours later, Vicky, her family, and their solicitor, Mr. Barnes, seated themselves within the dark paneled walls of the earl’s study. The room was smaller than her father’s study at Oakbridge House, but his desk was equally large, though less ornate. Her father’s leather upholstered chair sat behind the desk, and a footman had placed four cushioned chairs with spindly arms in front of the desk to accommodate everyone.
Althea quickly took the seat nearest the fireplace. Vicky’s mother sat beside her, and Vicky perched on the front of the chair nearest the window, waiting for her father and Mr. Barnes to sit so they could begin. The stocky, bespectacled Mr. Barnes took the chair nearest the door.
“I am sure you all wish to hear what happened with Dain, so I will keep you in suspense no longer,” her father began. “Mr. Barnes has heard the particulars, but I hope he will forgive me repeating the story,” he said, inclining his head toward the solicitor.
“Of course, my lord.”
The earl nodded. “I called on Dain the day after I arrived in London. I told him without prevarication that Althea had appeared at Oakbridge days before without informing anyone of her imminent arrival. He expressed surprise. When I asked if he knew why Althea had left for Hampshire without telling him, he replied, contrary to his initial reaction, that he had known of her plans to leave.”
Althea spoke in quiet tones. “That is a blatant falsehood, Papa. I left in the night. He was”—she paused—“not in the house. And not expected home for hours.”
“But you told him nothing of your plans?” their mother asked.
“If I had, I would not be with you now.”
Vicky’s eyes widened. She looked at her father. He had raised an eyebrow at the statement.
Their father spoke. “I told him you would not be returning to his London home in the foreseeable future. He seemed astonished by the notion. When I asked if he would willingly admit he was completely at fault for Althea’s departure, he denied any wrongdoing on his part. I saw fit to tell him exactly what he’d done to her, and to us all, by painting himself as a man of honor and proving himself the complete opposite.”
Vicky nodded.
Her father paused.
“What did he say?” Vicky asked.
“He laughed in my face.”
Vicky’s eyebrows shot up. Her mother gasped.
“He said whatever Althea had told us were the ramblings of a jealous spouse. He claimed, Althea, that you were angry with him for acquiring a mistress and had returned to Oakbridge telling stories of abuse to punish him.”
Vicky turned to her sister. Althea would never fabricate such a story. And although Vicky hadn’t any concrete reason to distrust Dain before now, she had no trouble believing him to be more adept at lying than her sister.
Althea stared into her lap with her hands clasped together so tightly, her knuckles were turning white.
Their father continued, “He said you would undoubtedly change your story if I questioned you, and in a few weeks, everything would blow over, and you would forgive him and return to your London house. When I asked if he would consent to a private separation agreement, he refused.”
Countless moments passed, but Althea said nothing.
Vicky could stay silent no longer. “But did you ask him about her bruises, Papa? What brilliant answer had he for those?”
“He said she fell and bumped her head. He ordered a physician to dress the wound.”
“Does he think us fools?” their mother scoffed.
After what seemed an eternity, Althea spoke. She was shaking, but whether it was from anger or fear, Vicky could not discern. Now her delicate hands gripped the arms of her chair, almost as though she was forcing herself to stay seated.
“You do not know him. Even I do not know him. I realized he was lying about everything—where he went, whom he met, what he was doing. Several weeks ago, when I confronted him about his dishonesty, he”—she paused and swallowed—“he took his anger out on me. Then he locked me in my room and instructed the servants to watch my every move. They lost all respect for me as mistress. Indeed, they took delight in humbling me.” She closed her eyes.
Vicky exhaled through her nose and held her breath to keep her tears at bay.
Althea seemed to force her eyes open. “They all followed Dain’s lead . . .” She hid her face in her hands. “There was nothing I could do to stop it. Only the stable master showed me any pity by allowing me to take my horse to flee and promising to say he had no knowledge of the incident.”
Vicky looked at the floor and clenched her fists, wanting desperately to comfort Althea, but not knowing how.
“Do you wish to start proceedings for a
legal separation?” their father asked.
Althea raised her head from her hands and nodded. “I shall never return to his house.”
“Despite the social scandal it will inevitably bring? Your reputation in society will never be the same, regardless of his guilt.”
Her gaze dropped. “I must find the strength to bear it.”
“We’ll help you, Thea,” Vicky said firmly. Her sister glanced her way, but Vicky could not interpret her look.
Althea lifted her chin. “I will be free of him, Papa.”
Vicky smiled at her sister’s proclamation. She would support Althea in any capacity she could. Just as she’d promised.
“Very well.” Their father nodded. He made eye contact with their mother. “Mr. Barnes, will you be so good as to explain the procedure.”
Mr. Barnes cleared his throat. “Indeed, my lord. The primary course of action would be for Lady Dain to apply to the Court of Chancery for a writ of supplicavit. If granted, this will protect her from her husband for a year. Legally he will be unable to force her to return to his home or control her in any way. That is the most immediate and practical solution.”
“But that only protects her for a year?” Vicky asked with a frown.
Mr. Barnes nodded. “However, your sister can also sue Lord Dain for a separation on the grounds of cruelty in the ecclesiastical court. Cases of excessive marital abuse are not uncommon, and when there is proof, many judges rule in favor of the wife. If we are successful, Lady Dain would be free of the viscount, and the court could order him to pay her alimony.”
Vicky’s eyebrows rose. It sounded so simple.
“Yet, I must stress, Lady Dain,” Mr. Barnes continued, “that you would not be able to remarry.”
Vicky’s eyes widened. She looked at Althea.
Her sister blanched, but nodded slowly. “What about him?”
“If the suit is successful, Lord Dain will not be permitted to remarry either. Judging by his recent declarations, it seems certain he will contest the suit. If so, the proceedings could take as long as two years.”
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