Memory's Bride

by Decca Price

  She was packing a small valise when Latimer walked in from the dressing room without knocking.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving, Edward. I can’t stay under the same roof with you another night.”

  “You’ll abandon your marriage promise because I made a business decision without consulting you? I think not, Claire. Or is it because of last night? I assure you, other wives get used to it in time.”

  “Neither reason. It’s because you are a monster.”

  “I see. I see all too clearly.” He grabbed her hard by the shoulder and forced her to look at him. “Montfort shows his face once in my house and you no longer want your lawful husband. I suspected there was more between you than he would admit, but I conquered my jealousy and gave you the benefit of the doubt.”

  She twisted out of his grip and lashed out, missing him by inches as he evaded her blow. Turning back to the valise, she picked up Lucy’s letter and placed it on top of her clothing.

  Latimer pushed her aside and seized it.

  “Is this from him?” She reached for the letter but swiped at air as he held it out of her reach.

  “You’re my wife now and you will honor your vows,” he said coldly. “Perhaps I’ve been too gentle with you.”

  “So you will hurt me, too—like you hurt her?” Claire gestured toward the letter he held between thumb and forefinger. “I know what you did to Lucy, Edward. I’ll leave this house tonight if I have to walk to Abbot Pyon!”

  Wordlessly, before Claire could react, he locked the dressing room door and pocketed the key. It took her a moment to register he had come with it, prepared.

  Secure from intrusion, he read the letter. Then he casually crushed it between his hands and threw it in the fire.

  “Thank you, my dear. Josiah told me had a damning letter from Lucy that he hadn’t received before he left for America. I’ve been looking for it since he died. It’s why I killed him.”

  Chapter 18

  Claire thought she must have misheard him.

  “Josiah fell from his horse,” she said, trying to sound dismissive.

  “Don’t be stupid.” Edward picked up a poker and prodded the burning letter further into the flames. “I met him in the lane that day. We quarreled because I kept my sister from running away to America with him and he was still angry. He always fancied Lucy—you’ve read his disgusting journals, how he lusted after women. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  He waved the poker aimlessly. “She sent the letter too late and he only found it when he returned from America. He threatened to spread these vile lies about me around the world. So I knocked him down and crushed his skull with a stone.” He thrust the poker hard into the grate and sparks flew up, along with bits of glowing paper.

  Claire stepped back warily, placing the chaise between them. “That’s why you wanted to find the manuscript, why you’ve torn the library apart! You were afraid he had written about you. You —and what you’d done.”

  “Afraid? No. He made sure I knew his intentions to destroy me. The letter was his insurance, to prevent a libel suit. I’d all but decided he’d lied about it, the way he misled me about so many things. And now here it is.” He jabbed the last black fragment into ash. “Or was.”

  “Is that why you married me?”

  “Regardless of what you may think at this moment, I did love you. Marrying you, however, was a mistake. You make me forget myself.”

  He studied her, the poker dangling by his side. “You needn’t be afraid of me, my dear. “ He raised the poker and examined its length. “As if a stick of furniture would protect you, though” He swung the iron down with a thwack on the upholstered arm of the chaise. The cracking of the wood beneath the padded fabric startled both of them for an instant.

  Claire scrambled for the bell pull beside the bed, hoping to cross the short space before he could react. The poker barred her way before she’d gone two steps. He pressed it against her bodice and forced her to retreat a step. A long horizontal line of soot smeared the silk.

  “I meant to tell you earlier, but I didn’t have the opportunity. I dismissed Parsons this afternoon.”

  “What! Why?”

  “I said you were finding her too familiar and were too embarrassed to say so. Don’t worry. I sent her off with a train ticket, a month’s wages and a reference, which, I must add, she did not deserve. You ruined that girl with your attentions.”

  “But I don’t understand! If we’re going abroad, I’ll need a maid more than I do here at home.”

  He sat splay legged on the end of the chaise, twisting the poker between his knees. “I don’t like my wife relying so much on other people. I’m glad we’re leaving this place. It will force you to give all your attention to me.”

  Claire placed her hand on her belly protectively. She tried to keep her face smooth as her mind raced for something to say that wouldn’t provoke him.

  “I’m tired, Edward,” was the best she could do. “Could we discuss this in the morning?”

  “I am tired, too, my dear, but I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you.” He stood and took her arm, all but dragging her to a chair by the fire. “Please. Sit.” He gave her a shove and she obeyed.

  He replaced the poker in the rack by the fireplace—well out of her reach—and sat again on the chaise, with his hands on his knees, leaning in toward her. “You haven’t asked why Lord Montfort called this evening.”

  “It was no business of mine,” Claire said shortly.

  “Even though he threatened me, knocked me down? Claire, where is your wifely concern?”

  “It was no business of mine,” she said again.

  “It is, though, my dear.” He straightened his back. “Prepare yourself for a shock.”

  Before she could stop it, a laugh erupted from her throat. What could be more shocking than what she had just read and heard? She masked it well enough with a cough that Latimer rose and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the night table. He handed it to her and sat impassively as she drank. When she set the glass down, willing her hand to be steady, he resumed.

  “Do you remember the woman who was found murdered by the churchyard?”

  She nodded once.

  “That woman claimed to be Josiah Carter’s wife.”

  Claire felt the shock write itself on her face. “But that’s—”

  “Impossible, you were going to say? Do you really believe that? Or that he wouldn’t abandoned her in America?”

  “No,” she said more calmly. “No, that doesn’t surprise me, if it’s true. But he really did marry her?”

  “Montfort claims to have discovered the place in the States where they were married. He says he’s spoken to the witnesses and the parson who performed the ceremony. He’s met her parents. He says he even employed a man to make a photographic plate of the church register.”

  “How can he be so sure it’s the same woman?”

  “Her family recognized her from her effects. Why does it matter? Montfort found a legal wife. Dead or alive, it comes to the same thing in the end.”

  Claire shuddered, then frowned. “Josiah’s will! He left Oak Grove to me in—how was it put?”

  “In absence of the superseding claims of spouse or issue,” Latimer supplied. “Yes. Oak Grove never was yours, thus now is not mine. I had hoped to sell and be gone long before any of this was known, much less settled. We could have lived in comfort for many years while claimants squabbled in Chancery Court. A sale would have tied it up that much longer. The case could have run until every farthing was exhausted.”

  “But that’s wrong, Edward! And what if this woman’s family demands restitution for all I’ve spent, for what I’ve done with Josiah’s papers, the biography? We could be ruined by going through court!”

  “That’s where you can be invaluable, my dear wife.” Latimer leaned so close she could see her reflection in his narrow pupils. “The clever Lord Montfort holds the deed to Oak Grove now. Why
do you think he went haring off to America? He’s got what he wanted. But you are going to help persuade him to sign that deed over to me. Then all can go on as before.”

  “He’ll never do that.”

  “Oh, but he will. Much as he struts about and moans like the gloomy Dane, he still values his life. I will dictate a letter to you and have it taken over to Oakley Court tonight. This will all be ended tomorrow morning and I’ll be on the Dover packet by evening.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “What would the point be in that? Montfort is free to decline your request for a tete-a-tete—but if you won’t help me arrange a meeting, I can always send one of the servants in your name.”

  “Then that’s what you will have to do, Edward. You seem to excel in putting other people’s words in your mouth.”

  “So be it. It’s better, in fact. No incriminating letter to worry me this time.” He picked up the poker again, and Claire quailed. “If you move an inch, I shall strike you down.”

  He disappeared into the dressing room, where Claire could hear him opening and closing drawers. He returned with a handful of her stockings and tossed them on the foot of the bed.

  Without preamble, he reached for her and grasped her arm. Half out of the chair, she grabbed the heavy tumbler at her side and struck him on the side of his head as hard as she could. He staggered back and dropped her, but before she could get her legs under her and run, he lashed out and threw her back. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed so hard her lungs emptied explosively and spots swam before her eyes.

  When he tossed her on the bed, she tried to kick him, but her heavy skirts got in the way. She flailed wildly at his face, making contact once or twice before he slapped her so hard her head snapped back against the headboard with a crack. She stopped hitting out at him when he grabbed a feather pillow and pressed it over her face. She struggled to push it away until her strength failed her, she ceased kicking and her arms fell limp on the bed.

  Despite the warm night, chill seeped through the walls and along the dark silent corridors of Oakley Court. The house was all but empty. In years past, when Montfort’s father was alive, the house would buzz at all hours as friends, political allies and place-seekers caballed on the fate of the empire while their wives, sisters and daughters formed alliances equally as powerful in their own way.

  But after the death of her favorite son, the dowager Lady Montfort preferred anyone else’s country home to her own, and her second son’s absence provided the excuse she wanted to take her daughters anywhere else at the close of the London season. If he wouldn’t persist in burying himself there, the house could be shut up permanently, as far as she was concerned.

  To Rhys Montfort, too, the house was filled with ghosts, but tonight he was impervious to both the cold and the memories. His blood still roared after the fight at Oak Grove, and the ring of his boots on the polished ebony boards of the gallery above the great hall echoed his satisfaction. The faces lining the long wall looked down proudly; if he were an imaginative man, he told himself, he would read approval in his ancestors’ eyes.

  He’d gotten what he wanted, or nearly so. For once, he had Edward Latimer off balance. Only the sight of Claire watching, impassive, from the top of stairs had tamped his gloating mood. She hadn’t even cried out when he struck Latimer down.

  He’d been back for only two days, but already he’d heard the rumors—the honeymoon cut short, the apparent estrangement between the couple, the bride’s ill health. It was Carey who had let slip that Mrs. Latimer no longer rode out or visited in the village.

  It was Carey, in fact, who had ridden over to Oakley Court that afternoon to tell Montfort about Latimer’s London guests. Carey was a dark one, Montfort decided, and probably not even sure himself whether he was looking out for his own interests, Oak Grove or its erstwhile mistress.

  “What do you expect me to do?” Montfort had asked the man curtly.

  “Nothing, I suppose,” Carey had replied. “I just thought you should know. This could affect everything you’ve been working on with our people, if someone who doesn’t understand or care about the farms comes in.” He paused, then plunged on. “And I don’t think Mrs. Latimer knows. She won’t be happy.”

  “Marriage changes people, Carey. For all we know, Mrs. Latimer has been chivvying her husband to get rid of the place and trade up for something in a more fashionable county.”

  “She’s not like that, sir. If she’s not well—”

  “Who says that?”

  “Anyone can see it, my lord. She scarcely goes out of the house since they’ve been back from the Lakes.”

  “There’s your answer then. They may intend to travel for Mrs. Latimer’s health.” Montfort all but dismissed the man, then recovered himself. “I do thank you for this information, however. I will call on Mr. Latimer immediately.”

  Carey allowed himself a smile. “It would be a grand thing if you could be the buyer, my lord.”

  “Indeed.”

  Now, as the clock ticked on the mantle, the coals shifted with a sigh in the library grate and the fire warmed his whiskey, Montfort was unable to tear his thoughts away from Claire.

  Humiliating her hadn’t been his intention, though once he’d done it, he wasn’t sorry. Over the long days and weeks since that day in the oast house, though, he’d had plenty of time to dissect his own motivations. It came down to fear. Fear of needing her love. Fear of opening the door to pain and loss again. Fear of bringing her harm or even death.

  He splashed more whiskey into the glass. The one thing he hadn’t been afraid of was rejection by her. Deep down, he’d known since that kiss in the cottage—maybe even from the day they’d met. If he were honest with her, she would respond with honesty. She couldn’t be any other way. But fool that he was, he had pretended to trick her, and ended up tricking himself.

  And now Latimer—for a second time, Latimer divided him from the woman he loved. He barred the way, implacable, like the angel with the flaming sword at the entrance to the Garden of Eden. Only for this exiled Adam, Eve remained forever on the other side of the gate.

  Well, Oak Grove was no Eden, and he now held the keys to its gates.

  “Pardon me, my lord.” He hadn’t heard the valet’s knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a boy here with a message from the New House. Shall I bring him in?”

  Montfort set down his glass, rose and nodded. After hearing what the boy had to say, he went up to his rooms and rifled through the bag he’d brought back from America. He shoved a small pistol in his coat pocket and a few moments later was striding across the windblown lawn.

  A cold breeze touched Claire’s face and she opened her eyes to darkness. She tried to sit up but rocked helplessly like a turtle on its back. Her arms were bound painfully underneath her body and her legs were tied together. Trying to move set her head to throbbing, and her wrists and ankles were restrained so tightly her limbs ached. She lay still and tried to think.

  The fire had died down, so it must be late, she reasoned. The house was silent.

  Tensing her muscles, she managed to flop onto her right side, facing the fireplace. Edward had tied her ankles beneath her skirts, so if she could come to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, she might be able to hop across the room. The paper knife should still be on the table by her reading chair, if it hadn’t gone flying in her struggle with Edward.

  She inched her hips to the right and gingerly swung her feet out into space and down with enough momentum to carry her legs forward off the high bed.

  A rattle behind her broke her concentration and she fell to the floor. Fire shot up her arm when her elbow struck the bare boards at the edge of the carpet and she bit back a cry. Heart thundering, she strained to locate the sound. The knob to the dressing room door vibrated roughly and she scrambled crabwise under the bed.

  The clatter stopped and the door swung open. Slow footfalls approached the bed, stopped,
shushed across the carpet toward the fireplace. There was a muted grunt as a body collided with something heavy. Silence. Soft irregular breathing. Movement toward the bed. Claire held her breath.

  “Miss? Miss? Are you in here, miss?”

  Annie!

  “I’m under the bed,” Claire said as loudly as she dared. “Where is my husband?”

  “He’s gone out, miss. I saw him from the window, hurrying across the lawn toward the wood. Are you hurt?”

  “No, Annie. Can you see to pull the curtains tight and light a lamp? Then you can help me get out from under here.”

  Claire heard a rattle of curtain rings and a moment later a light flared. Annie found the paper knife and cut through the stockings Latimer used to bind Claire.

  “Oh, Annie,” Claire exclaimed, giving the girl a hug. “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my whole life! But what are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t believe you’d send me away like that, without a word direct,” the girl said simply. “So after he sent me to the station in Hereford, I turned around and walked back. I slipped up the back stairs and hid in the dressing room, then I fell asleep. It was the row that woke me. And the good Lord must have been watching over me, ’cause if I hadn’t, the mister would’a caught me out. I climbed in the wardrobe and waited. Then I heard him leave. “

  Annie sniffed. “I’m so sorry, miss!”

  “What could you possibly be sorry for?”

  “I wanted terribly to come in and see you was all right, but I was afraid he’d come back. Then I saw him in the garden and I still waited. If I’d a known he’d tied you up like that, I would’a risked it!”

  “How did you get in?”

  “Mr. Latimer forget to ask for my keys.”

  Claire gave Annie another hug. “Quick, find my cloak and bonnet. I was just about packed to leave when all this started, so I just need to see where my case ended up. You’ve already got your train ticket, yes? And I have enough money for mine.” She rummaged through a drawer in her dressing table and produced a slim pocketbook.