by Decca Price
He stalked through the streets of Liverpool for hours sunk in a black reverie, the scowl on his face repelling any pedestrians who, in deference to his garb, ventured to nod politely or touch their caps. By late afternoon, the sunlight slanted through tall trees across dusty grass and he found himself beside a pond, the iron of the park bench chill through his trouser seat.
He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but he knew it was late only because starched nurses were gathering up their charges and heading for the gates, pushing prams and towing reluctant toddlers in their wakes. Latimer watched them impassively. He scarcely remembered being a child, since his mother had died early and life with his lonely father in the aftermath of her loss was a bleak landscape punctuated by paternal crimination and rebuke.
He was in upper form at boarding school when his father married Lucy’s mother. A baby’s birth at that stage in his life caused scarcely a ripple in his awareness, since he was away at school, then university, and the baby was a girl. When he was home, he was scarcely expected to spend time in the schoolroom. Everything changed when his father died suddenly while Latimer was at university. Under the guardianship of Montfort’s father until he came of age, he had even less reason to spend time at home.
By the time Lucy caught his attention and wound the first tendrils of affection around his heart, she was trotting around Abbot Pyon on her pony and he had returned to the village as rector. She danced through her days with gaiety and enthusiasm, charming everyone she met, simultaneously enchanting and alarming him.
Then, just after Lucy turned 15, her mother died, too. The burden of controlling and protecting such an impulsive, passionate creature nearly drove him mad. In the end, he had failed.
Watching the last of the children leave the park, Latimer wondered how, if he and Claire had children, he would bear the responsibility. When he had proposed marriage, he was focused on possessing her and Oak Grove, glossing over the primacy of marriage stated so plainly in the service. Procreation. The act itself and how to subordinate it to his will so absorbed his mind that the idea of children appeared distant and unreal.
He dug his heel viciously into the soft grass and pounded a fist on the hard arm of the bench. There was a sudden movement a few feet in front him, and his head jerked up. A child who had ventured too close to the silent man in black jumped back with a yelp and ran to join the other children lollygagging after their harried nurse.
Latimer waited until they were gone and walked slowly back to his hotel. Deeply disappointing as the day was, it nevertheless had given him considerable food for thought. Almost against his volition, plans were forming in his brain.
Claire was sitting in her robe by the window in the sitting room, listlessly staring out at the lake when Latimer returned to the Swan barely a day after his departure. Annie had run down to the servants’ hall for her dinner, leaving Claire free to give way to the feelings she tried to suppress around the girl.
A steady drizzle ruffled the water’s surface, keeping most visitors indoors. She had been ill again at breakfast and the probable cause was settling on her mind like a stone. The herbal tea Annie recommended helped to calm her stomach, but she feared there was no remedy for the sick feeling in her heart. She pressed her head against the cool glass and sighed.
She lifted her face when she heard the door open. “Edward! I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
Her paleness startled him. The dark circles under her reddened eyes betrayed that she had been crying. Then he saw the missing letter lying, unfolded and face down, on the table beside her.
“You read that?” he demanded.
“Yes, Edward, I’m sorry. I found it on the floor in your room and didn’t realize what it was until I had looked at it.”
“You had no right. What were you doing in my room anyway?”
She sighed. “I missed you. We’ve been married for nearly a fortnight and I feel sometimes I see less of you than before. To sit in your chair, to touch the things on your washstand—it made me feel closer to you.” She didn’t mention how she had buried her face in his shirts to inhale the faint, clean scent of him. She sensed he would be shocked.
She looked up into his angry face. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth? I would have understood.”
He drew a breath before speaking, then said carefully, “Understood what?”
“I know how much it must mean to you to find your sister.” She stood and came over to him where he hovered by the mantel, torn between anger and remorse. Her touch on his face was like a moth’s wing. “And I can see you were disappointed.”
He hesitated, then enveloped her in his arms, all but crushing her cheek against his breast so she couldn’t see the look of relief on his face. “Yes, I was disappointed.”
She slipped her arms around his waist and listened to the agitated beating of his heart. He held her that way in one strong arm, his left hand tight on her waist, while with the right he began to gently work the pins out of her hair. She hardly dared to breath as, one by one, they dropped soundlessly to the carpet.
When he had removed a sufficient number, he worked his fingers into the thick coil at her neck until the tresses tumbled down her back. Then he shifted his weight so he could turn her to face him and, tilting her chin up, kissed her full on the mouth.
His kiss was deep and voracious, sending thrills down her spine and into her limbs. Her knees melted as she hungrily kissed him back. He shifted his hold, clutching her derriere with one strong hand and pushing her hips forward as though he intended to literally sweep her off her feet and carry her away. She leaned back into his embrace, ready to abandon herself to him. The rush of pleasure from knowing her husband wanted her at last quelled the melancholy voice in her head that mechanically reiterated the growing list of lies already corrupting their marriage.
She luxuriated in the feel of his powerful shoulders and arms as he shoved the door open with a kick and carried her into her bedroom, where he carefully placed her on the bed. Her happiness ended abruptly when he turned up the lamp and rang for Annie.
With effort, she sat up. While she scanned his face for an answer to his sudden shift in mood, he studied her avidly in the lamplight.
She could read his desire easily. His dark pupils expanded so wide that the irises shrank to narrow rims of brilliant green. In the blackness were bright vertical splinters—the reflection of the lamp at her elbow.
His nostrils flared and his breath came in shallow, rapid pants. The bulge in his well-tailored trousers was unmistakable. He stared at her—and if she could have seen herself as he did at that moment, her joy would have shriveled to horror.
He saw swollen lips and smudged eyes stark in a white face, tousled hair seeming to writhe in the light and shadow cast on her, the bed and walls by the wavering flame. To his eyes, she swam in a torrent of fire but did not burn. Not the frail daughter of Eve, but the demonic Lilith waiting to carry him to Hell.
He gripped the foot of the iron bedstead and tore his eyes away from hers.
“I can see you’re not well,” he said. “I noticed the moment I saw you. We will go home tomorrow.”
Annie knocked on the open door, hesitant to enter. He turned to her. “See that your mistress’s things are packed and ready for the porter in the morning. For now, make sure she has a light supper and an early night. We’ll take the 10 o’clock train.”
“Yessir,” the girl replied meekly.
He raised his voice. “Surely you realized she was unwell! What’s wrong with you, girl?”
When Annie had scurried off to change the order for Claire’s dinner, Latimer turned back to Claire, now sunk back against the pillows, her arm flung across her forehead as if she truly were ill. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for… I’m just, sorry.”
She closed her eyes and he left. His footsteps crossed the sitting room and faded into his bedroom. The door clicked shut. She buried her face in the pillow and, her emotions a tangle of disappointment, frus
tration and fear, she waited for tears that refused to come.
Only Annie was sorry to leave the Swan and return to the station in Windermere town for the long journey home. As soon as she left the small inn, she would be a mere lady’s maid once again rather than pupil or—she would dare to think it—a friend, and she suspected her merry evenings in her mistress’s boudoir also would be over. That her schooling might end as well added to her silent misery. Life at Oak Grove would be different with a master in charge.
Everything would be different going forward and she sensed calamity on the horizon. In many ways, the young girl knew more about life and sex than Claire. In her world, a pregnant bride had no reason for shame. Many farm couples, pledged to one another, waited until a child was on the way before walking to the church together. Given that a farm took many hands to run, proof of fecundity was prudent.
But sharp-eyed Annie knew Latimer had yet to bed his wife, before or after the ceremony. She could read it on his face each evening when it came time to turn the lamps down, bank the fire and retire. Whether he wouldn’t or couldn’t was immaterial to Annie. She saw him avoid meeting Claire’s eyes and the way he barely touched her before sending her off to bed alone. And Claire—the brave way she pretended nothing was amiss made Annie want to kick the reverend rector in the shins.
So next Annie pondered whether Latimer had married Claire out of pity or, worse—had he used her predicament to coerce her into a marriage of convenience to take her money and land?
But Claire hadn’t kenned to her condition until after they arrived at Windermere. If it hadn’t been for herself, Annie thought, Claire still may not know. The way the quality raised their daughters made no sense.
It wasn’t long until the penny dropped. The lost corset, the missing petticoat—Annie was responsible for these things and noticed their absence immediately, yet nary a word was said to her by anyone. Then there was the gossip below stairs and in the village shops. Viscount Montfort’s reputation, the way he was seen hanging about Claire.
Excellent at her sums, thanks to Miss Simms, Annie quickly worked forward from that day to this. The realization cost Annie hours of lost sleep as she played out what could happen when Claire’s secret was out.
Annie reckoned Mr. Latimer was too much the gentleman to beat his wife. But she’d steel herself to step between them in case she was wrong. A man could get carried away, only to be sorry later, if seriously vexed. She’d seen it with her own eyes, with her sister Bess and her man.
What if the reverend would demand a separation and send Claire away? She knew of a snug little cottage on her da’s farm. For her sake, Annie thought, he might let them have it—at a reasonable rent, of course.
But even if they had to wander the world, Annie vowed, she’d stick by Claire and look after her. If she had to, she’d even stand up to the Lord High-and-Mighty who did this to her mistress.
Annie pictured herself standing in the doorway of the cottage, ordering the proud lord off her da’s freehold. Claire would be ever so grateful. That is, assuming Claire didn’t want to see his lordship again. That gave Annie more food for thought. Getting a farm girl to agree to a slap and tickle in the hay was one thing. How did a man get a lady out of a corset if she weren’t willing?
But never mind. That was her mistress’s business, Annie decided. Keeping her safe would be Annie’s.
Clutching her new drawing portfolio and pencil box—purchased with her own money but with Claire’s guidance—Annie blinked away a tear, lifted her chin and followed her employers down the platform to the waiting train.
It was barely dusk when they drew up to Oak Grove’s entrance. Claire watched the swifts darting about the chimney tops as the footman unloaded their luggage, then, seeing Latimer was halfway to the door, followed slowly behind.
“Where is Kip? Why isn’t he here to greet me?” she asked Mrs. White as Annie collected her wraps at the foot of the stairs. “Kip’s all right, isn’t he?”
“Master’s orders, ma’am,” Mrs. White said gruffly with a slight nod in Latimer’s direction. “He said the dog should stay below stairs when he’s not wanted for a run in the garden or such.”
“Edward?”
“I don’t fancy mud and hair on the furniture and carpets, my dear. Besides,” he said, looking directly at Mrs. White, “any one of the servants will tell you how much extra work a dog in the house makes for them. It’s not their place to complain, but ours to show consideration. And Mrs. White is very fond of Kip. She told me so.”
“Quite right,” Mrs. White all but mumbled. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to dinner. Half an hour, sir?”
“That should be plenty of time, Mrs. White.”
Claire said nothing until they were up the stairs and out of earshot of even Annie.
“Edward,” she said with asperity. “How is a dog in the kitchens any less of a problem than he is in my sitting room? And why is it now that Mrs. White is taking orders from you? As your wife, I should be running the household.”
“Forgive me, dearest, but I told Mrs. White before we returned that you weren’t well and that we should all do our outmost to spare you any bother. Just until you’re feeling stronger, of course.”
“I’m not an invalid, Edward, just tired from the journey.”
“You’re overestimating your powers, my dear. Everyone around you can see how pale you’ve become, how—forgive me!—how peevish. Better to nip this in the bud rather than see you seriously damage your health. You’re my responsibility now, after all.”
“But Edward—!”
“Nay, my dear. Go and freshen up.” He lightly touched his lips to her forehead. “When you’re ready, I’ll take you down to dinner.”
Days passed in which Edward Latimer fetched and carried for Claire, seeing she had the softest cushions at her back, the choicest cuts from the meat platter at table, that her glass was filled with fortifying sherry several times a day and that her tea remained hot. At the same time, he kept her away from the stable, as well as Carey or anyone involved with the business of Oak Grove.
When the weather was fair, he walked her once around the garden in the morning and at dusk, but within days of their return, the skies turned foul and so much rain fell that the trout stream at the bottom of the front lawn rose halfway to the gravel drive.
Each morning after breakfast, Edward went into the library and firmly shut the door, leaving her to wander the rooms of Oak Grove like a haunting spirit. Once she had tried joining him, only to discover he kept the stout double doors locked, even when he was inside.
“I don’t like being disturbed when I’m working” was all he said when she asked.
His nearness continued to torment her, especially in the evenings, but her ache for him grew less sharp as her body adjusted to new demands. But her puzzlement continued unabated. Clearly, he cared for her. That was evident from his solicitude. Yet he kept his distance, as though she were some dangerous creature apt to strike if he relaxed his guard. He circled her, tormenting them both, like a hawk lured by a captive hare, fearing ensnarement yet longing for the prize.
Her nausea tended to come very early in the morning and subside quickly, so by the time she sat down to breakfast at 9, she could eat if she went slowly and stayed away from richer foods like the kedgeree Mrs. White had added to the sideboard since Edward had taken up residence at Oak Grove.
“Perhaps,” she ventured that morning at breakfast, “perhaps you were right. I am feeling so much better now.” She watched warily as he spread a warm slice of toast with gooseberry jam and placed it on her plate.
“I’m glad you agree with me, Claire. You had me more worried than I cared to say. I didn’t want to alarm you. But it looks like you might even be putting on a little flesh. It becomes you.”
She took a tiny bite of toast, chewed slowly and swallowed.
“I was hoping...” she began.
“It’s too soon for you to be riding, Claire. I expect you to stay
in the house unless you go out for a stroll with me. Or if you must go out, take the footman with you. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I was going to say, Edward, I was hoping we could return to our work on Josiah’s papers. Truth be told, I miss the mental exercise.” She hesitated and touched the back of his hand lightly. “I miss working with you.”
“I would like that. Truly,” he said, slowly withdrawing his hand. “Not today or tomorrow, but the day after that?”
She snatched her hand back as her face fell. “Why not now, today, Edward? I want to be useful, I want to have purpose. You’re leaving me with nothing to do!”
“Don’t be petulant, Claire. I have business in the parish today.” He pushed back his chair and stood abruptly. “And tomorrow you may not feel like it.”
Latimer stayed out for the better part of the day, and in her loneliness, Claire turned to Annie. Leaving the door to her rooms open slightly, she gave the girl another drawing lesson and the afternoon passed more quickly than she expected. She liked teaching, and she enjoyed the girl’s hunger for learning.
As Annie concentrated on sketching a bowl of fruit Claire placed for her on the tea table, Claire’s thoughts strayed involuntarily to motherhood. Her own mother had left the actual raising of her children to nurses and governesses. In these modern times, would she be expected to turn her children over to servants? Edward was so traditional, she feared he would insist.
She passed her hand over her eyes with a sigh. Edward. Would she even be at Oak Grove by year’s end and able to provide for a child decently? Thank God the law had changed, so that if he did turn her out, he couldn’t punish her further by claiming the child and raising it as he wished.