Memory's Bride

by Decca Price

  A note from Edward Latimer waited on the hall table. She carried it up to her room and threw it on the desk unopened. If it was another lecture on her behavior, she wasn’t in the mood. Nothing he could say would top the lesson she’d gotten from Montfort that morning.

  She drank tea alone in her room, sent a message to Mrs. White that she would skip dinner, then left a message for Simmie saying she had a headache and had retired. She claimed the headache as an excuse to send Annie away early as well.

  Exchanging her robe for a lighter nightgown, she sat at the dressing table mirror to stare again at the stranger who had usurped her familiar reflection.

  She leaned in for a closer look.

  Faint bite marks showed crimson against the whiteness of her breasts. So intense had been her pleasure in Rhys Fitzgordon’s lovemaking that she hadn’t noticed the pain he must have inflicted in the throes of their passion. Now, though, her flesh all but shouted witness to their sport.

  It was the last straw.

  Snatching up a heavy silver hair brush, she hurled it into the mirror. A thousand tiny shards flew out in all directions, spangling her gown, the carpet and the embroidered cloth covering the table. All around her the room shimmered in the flickering reflected lamplight.

  She flecked away the bits that fell on her nightgown but trod heedlessly on others. Her bare feet bleeding, she crept into bed and cried herself into exhaustion.

  Chapter 14

  Montfort swore under his breath as he cantered away from the oast house, his horse’s hooves kicking up clots of mud. He had called Claire Burton a fool, but he was the bigger one. What had he been thinking?

  He liked Claire. He liked her so much, in fact, that she had melted his resolve to keep away from her. Her first kiss should have told him everything he had learned about her in the last hour, but he was too infatuated to heed the warning signs. A virgin! What the hell was Joss doing messing about with an inexperienced girl of good family still under the protection of a father and a brother? Was it possible he really had intended to marry her? A connection with the Burtons would have done nothing to advance Joss’s career, social standing or wealth. It didn’t make any sense.

  Except that there was something about Claire Burton that turned a man’s head. Despite her occasional awkwardness, she engaged with life with an optimism that was infectious. If he felt it, it could be that the libertine Joss had fallen under her spell as well.

  The fire at Oak Grove ignited emotions in him he never thought to experience again. He worried about her, alone but for Miss Simms and friendless in unwelcoming country. By day, he rode the fields, keeping a distant eye on her travels. Until he’d given himself away today, she never knew he patrolled her grounds at night. Judicious bribes kept her servants mum, though the lowering expression on his face would have been enough.

  It was that single lamp burning in the darkness that drew him in, and their daily meetings began. If things had been different—if he were different—he’d be proud to present Claire to the world as Lady Montfort. But Isabel finished him. Their quarrels grew increasingly violent as they fueled their mutual hatred with whiskey and wine. The servants became accustomed to cleaning up broken glass and righting the furniture while their master and mistress slept off their fury late into the day.

  Montfort hurled names at Isabel he never expected in his life to use to a woman—any woman—and she taunted him mercilessly about the night George died. And then she had died.

  Both times, his memory failed when he strained to piece together what had happened. His mind drew a thick black curtain across the fatal hours. One accident he could accept, but two stretched into improbability.

  Only Edward Latimer knew of the fears that jolted Montfort awake in the night and haunted too many waking hours. Latimer’s occasional barbed remarks rankled, but they served to remind Montfort he couldn’t trust himself. The only good to come from his marriage to Isabel was their honeymoon—it meant he was in Italy when Lucy disappeared. She, at least, wasn’t on his conscience.

  Well, he thought grimly, Claire was safe. His brutal words guaranteed that even should he weaken again and attempt to woo her, she would have nothing to do with him. So let her go back to mooning over Joss. Joss had given her land, money, freedom and a memory to cherish however she saw fit. It wasn’t lost on him that she wore Joss’s heavy ring where a wedding band should be.

  His mind on that ring, Montfort hesitated a moment, then turned his horse toward Abbot Pyon.

  As he approached the rectory, a bevy of ladies walking in the opposite direction scurried onto the grassy edge of the road and averted their faces under their bonnets. His salute was everything politeness and rank required, but his scowl, had they been looking, betrayed his contempt. He knew what they were thinking. Silly rabbits, all of them—except for one, Mrs. Talwell, who drew herself up as they passed and gave him a defiant glare.

  As he dismounted and tied his reins to the iron fence, he heard them twittering as they continued on into the village. His lot today, it seemed, was to give priggish ladies empty thrills.

  Latimer was standing in the doorway. “You passed the delegation, I see,” he said as Montfort walked in. “You should have been here, though I’m sure they would have lost their courage if you had. It was delicious, watching them hemming and hawing.”

  “Delegation? Something amiss with the choirmaster again, or is some farm lad balking after putting his lass in the club?”

  “My life should be so simple. No, my friend, they were here out of concern for me.”

  Montfort cocked an eyebrow.

  “They are confused, the poor dears. ‘What should they do,’ they wondered. Do about what, I asked. ‘Well,’ they said, ‘if there should be a certain lady in the parish, who seems to be a good Christian in all she does, goes to church and so on, but who they know isn’t....’ I let the silence draw out, for I knew where they were going.”

  “You make it sound like a Greek chorus. Did they speak in unison?” Montfort said.

  “It’s mainly that officious Charlotte Talwell. The other three sat and looked at their hands in their laps. Just because her husband paid to put the new roof on St. Michael’s last year—something you should have seen to, I might add—she sets herself up as distaff rector of the parish.”

  “It was very amusing, I’m sure, but I came to talk to you about something and I’d rather not delay.”

  “Oh, very well. You never had much of a sense of humor, and it’s gotten worse.”

  “They wanted to discuss Miss Burton,” Montfort prompted him, “and get your opinion on whether they should be more accepting of her, no doubt.”

  “Very perceptive of you, but then—no doubt,” he hit the words hard, “you’ve got the buxom Miss Burton on your mind these days. I know you ride out with her frequently. We quarreled about you, in fact. I made it clear I did not approve. But I can assure you, Montfort, you’re not going to catch her. You should see how she watches me now when she thinks I don’t notice. She was fussed when I criticized her behavior with you simply because she is not used to correction, not because she cares about you.”

  Latimer noted Montfort’s reddening face with satisfaction.

  “But I digress,” Latimer continued. “Mrs. Talwell and her minions put on their Sunday finery to call and express their deep worry about my behavior. It has been noted in the village, you see, that I spend a great deal of time at Oak Grove. My actions—above reproach per se, they assure me—is being misconstrued. Their daughters, you know. So impressionable. That woman, so dubious. My example. Very bad.”

  “Have you no sympathy for their perspective, Edward? Their lives are so narrow and they must love their daughters. It can’t have been easy, coming here.”

  “Oh, I do sympathize. Daughters are a care and a worry. You can’t relax your vigilance for a moment.” He frowned and paused. “But like most women, they enjoy running down other women, and their thinking is painfully scattered.

&nbs
p; Montfort pursed his lips slightly as Latimer continued.

  “Then as they’re leaving, they encounter the wicked Lord Montfort on his way here. The next thing you know, they’ll be importuning the bishop to rescue them from their scarlet rector.”

  “Not funny, Latimer. Imagine the trouble there would have been—could still be, if Joss had managed to finished that wretched novel before he died and it turns up. You’d be smeared in the public’s eye much the way I’ve been.”

  Latimer slammed his fist down on the desk between them.

  “Not like you, Rhys,” he hissed. “I’ve done nothing to make them believe any ill of me that Joss could spread. Not like you. Now what did you want?”

  Montfort grimaced, dropped his head and passed his hand over his face. “Ring for something,” he said. “I’ve not eaten since dawn and it’s been a rough morning.”

  Latimer squeezed Montfort’s shoulder hard as he stepped past him to the bell. “I’m sorry. Those blasted women cut close to the bone sometimes, with their holier-than-thou maternal cant. Where were they when Lucy’s mother died? She needed a caring woman’s guidance then, but they had their own daughters to think about. They were jealous of Lucy’s beauty and sweetness. I still find it hard to forgive their coldness to her.”

  “You did the best you could,” Montfort said.

  “Don’t,” Latimer snapped. “I know you mean well, but don’t. If I did the best I could, then why is Lucy gone from us?”

  “I can’t answer that. You know I never as much as spoke to her again after she rejected me. We all failed her in one way or another—you, me, Joss, even George. Let’s just hope she’s found some happiness wherever she went. To think otherwise is too terrible.”

  As men of the world, Latimer and Montfort both knew what happened to young women who, for whatever reason, left their homes and tried to make their own way in life. Most ended up on the streets, condemned to degradation, disease and early deaths from sickness or violence. Some 55,000 prostitutes could be found in London alone, but every town had its ladybirds, dollymops and bobtails, terms that made light of their trade in flesh.

  To picture Lucy lying dead in a ditch was preferable.

  So heavy was the thought of Lucy that when Montfort spoke the name of Mary Collins, the turn in the conversation seemed to follow naturally.

  “I think I know why Mary Collins came to Abbot Pyon,” Montfort said without preamble. “She was looking for Joss.”

  Latimer’s reply shocked him.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to arrive there.”

  “You knew?”

  “There was enough information to patch together,” he shrugged. “They said at The Dragon that she spoke oddly. An examination of her clothing indicated it hadn’t been made here in Britain. She was traveling alone and from all accounts, didn’t seem bothered by that—again, gossip at The Dragon. Ergo, she was American. It was too much of a coincidence, what with Joss returning from the States not two months before.”

  Montfort poured himself a glass of ale from the pitcher on the table.

  He chose his words slowly. “When I found her, Mary Collins was wearing a ring on her left hand. It was fairly wide, and molded into the gold were leaf shapes and vines. I thought it was a mourning ring, because there were rows of black enamel, two, I think, and it was set with three stones, rubies maybe, or garnets. I didn’t look that closely.”

  Latimer raised his glass to his lips and looked narrowly at Montfort over the rim, then lowered it. “And you’ve seen this ring before, have you?” he said casually.

  “Dammit, Latimer, you have, too. Claire Burton wears one like it all the time. Only the stones are purple.”

  “I won’t ask you how you know that, since an equestrienne wears gloves and I don’t think you’ve called formally for tea, “ Latimer said. “I know because I work closely with her and see that ring every day. I ask myself how many Joss had made and whether more of his castoffs are going to turn up in Abbot Pyon looking for him.”

  “You can be so thick at times,” Montfort spat. “Doesn’t it worry you? First this Collins woman is murdered, and then someone sets fire to Oak Grove.”

  “Frankly, I assumed you had more to tell than you wished about that fire. And then there’s the matter of those exotic leaves in Mary Collins’s hair.”

  His words hung thick in the air. Then Latimer cracked a smile, his teeth gleaming white though the expression on his face changed little.

  “Don’t fret, Rhys. I believe you are guilty of nothing in either of those quarters. I merely wanted to point out how it could look to anyone who doesn’t know you. The police, for instance.”

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Yes, well. Actually, there is something we should discuss about Mary Collins, since you’ve come this far in unraveling the puzzle. Her name wasn’t Collins.”

  “And how in blazes do you know that?”

  “I know because I spoke with the woman. She said her name was Marguerite Carter. She claimed to be Joss’s wife.”

  Montfort fell back into his chair like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.

  “You spoke to her.”

  “Yes. She was hanging around the cemetery like a lost cat. And be glad I found her there before she attracted anyone’s attention. She was watering Joss’s grave with tears like a heroine out of one of his novels.”

  “My god, what if Claire had seen her?”

  “Exactly. That would have been a fine mess. Joss’s estate in chancery! There would have been nothing left for anybody.”

  “I was thinking more of Miss Burton’s sensibilities. That would have been a devastating blow in so many ways—to learn you had thrown over friends and family to claim a property in error, to be so woefully wrong about the circumstances...”

  “To give up your virtue for nothing? Your tendresse for Miss Burton is quite a change, Rhys.”

  “I think she’s a decent girl,” Montfort said flatly. “In fact, I’ve sworn off her. She’s too good for me and she deserves better than you, with your cynicism and low opinion of women.”

  “Ho, then! What’s brought the proud lord low?”

  “Think what you like. Yes, I’ve been riding out nearly every day trying to get into her good graces, hoping she’d sell Oak Grove to me in the end, but she doesn’t even understand what I’m about, unless it’s marriage, straight and proper. That’s too high a price for me. I’m surprised you haven’t cried off as well, knowing about this American woman.”

  “Mary Collins is dead and buried, and she took Marguerite Carter with her. I think that’s the end of the matter.”

  “Did she have proof, Edward? How do you know a relative won’t turn up looking for her?”

  “And how do we know she wasn’t just some tramp he took up with in America? We don’t. But I think it’s unlikely. If Mary Collins has any family, they’d have wondered long ago why they hadn’t heard from her since she set out. But knowing Joss, she was probably just another stray he picked up along his way. America is full of them, I’ve read.”

  “What do you suppose happened to her?”

  “I don’t speculate. What could any woman expect, wandering around the country alone like that? She’s fortunate nothing worse happened to her. Some vagrant probably attacked her.”

  “You sound so certain. And so pitiless. No wonder humanity is turning away from the Church, with clergy like you to shepherd them.”

  Montfort rose to go. “There’s one more thing. I’ve decided to go abroad, I don’t know for how long. My estate manager can handle any business matters that arise, should you need him. And you can have use of a hunter when the season starts, as usual.”

  “I wish you good travels, then, “ Latimer replied. “Will I see you before you go?”

  “No, Edward. The sight of you is getting to be more than I can stomach.”

  “The world is a mean place, Rhys. Just remember, when Oak Grove is in your hands again, how families
like yours climbed to the lofty positions you hold today. It wasn’t by feeling pity. For anyone.”

  Montfort was scarcely out the door before Latimer settled himself at his desk. Taking out a fresh sheet of fine cream paper, he immediately began writing, “My dearest Miss Burton...” If all went as he wished, he wouldn’t need to take up Montfort’s offer of horses.

  Claire suffered through only a few fitful hours of sleep before she dragged herself out of bed the next morning. Flinging the drapes open, she surveyed the damage to the room without emotion. Someone would have to clean it up. She would apologize, but she wouldn’t—she couldn’t—explain what had come over her.

  She waited an hour, then rang for Annie, asking her to bring warm water, salve and bandages for her feet.

  “I had a nightmare,” Claire said before Annie, eyes wide, could speak. The tiny, shallow cuts stung as Annie dressed them.

  Prompted by the worried maid, Simmie was in next.

  “I had a fever in the night, and it gave me bad dreams. I must have sleepwalked,” Claire told her. “I’m fine now. Inform Mr. Carey and Tressel I won’t be going out today.” Then she crawled back into bed.

  Simmie felt Claire’s warm forehead. “I knew the moment I saw those storm clouds, there’d be trouble.”

  “Yes,” Claire said distantly. Simmie ordered Mrs. White to send up a tisane of mint, fennel and chamomile to bring down Claire’s fever. By noon, she was able to take a light broth, lovingly spooned into her mouth by the vigilant Simmie, and the sleep that followed was quieter and more restful.

  By nightfall, Claire was awake again and more alert. Simmie smiled with relief as she tried to tuck the blankets more closely around Claire.

  “I was sure you were going to be really ill,” she said, unable to conceal the worry in her eyes as Claire pushed the coverings back impatiently.

  “I need to get up. As you can see, I am not ill, but lying in bed needlessly will make me so. And I need nourishment. I’m famished!” She stepped out of bed and winced.