by L. R. Olson
“She’s an innocent, even I can see that.”
Was she? Damn it all, that guilt I’d been trying to ignore for weeks flared to life.
“Fuck off, Rafe. At least I don’t use woman after woman to sate my lust! Up until now I’ve only kept a couple mistresses who have always been well compensated. You, on the other hand, will use any woman who lifts her skirts.”
His jaw clenched. He knew I spoke the truth. How dare he paint me the sinner and he the saint. “She loved you.”
I scoffed at the thought. “And half of England thinks themselves in love with you.”
“You could have had a family, a life, instead you threw it all away. Damn it, she loved you. And now I doubt she’ll ever forgive you.”
He started toward the door. What the hell did he know? He spent his life seeking pleasure, with no responsibility. I’d been the one who’d had to deal with Father’s fits, with Mother’s melancholy. I’d been the one who had been forced to protect my younger brothers, taking their beatings.
Love.
How could she possibly love me? Love was an illusion that destroyed the weak and strong. Look what it had done to my mother. To Evangeline. We’d loved her, we’d thought we were saving her, yet we had only made things so much worse.
He paused in the doorway, apparently to take one more jab. “Yes, Jamie, you saved us from father. But who, I wonder, will save Jules from you?”
With those words he turned and walked away leaving me drowning in anger, guilt and shame.
Chapter 7
Julianna
My sleep patterns had become erratic since that night with James.
More and more often I found myself unable to rest when darkness arrived. I’d pace the room, wondering if he was at home, in his chamber, or perhaps visiting a mistress or two. I’d fall asleep for a few hours, only to wake up irritable and restless. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to forget. Let the darkness claim me, but my own racing mind betrayed and sleep eluded me.
Even my art changed. The dreamy quality of my paintings had morphed into something darker, more elusive. I no longer feared the moors, but craved them, for the dreariness was merely an extension of my soul.
I’d expected to see James two days after for our appointed time together. He had warned me, and James always kept his promises, of that I was sure. Yet five days had come and gone, still there was no sign of the man. Even Rafe had left, much to my dismay. He had been my one confidant, the only to sympathize with my plight, and I was truly sad to see him go.
And so I was left alone to do as I wanted. And only months ago I would have savored my freedom. Yet now I felt as if I was left teetering along the edge of a cliff, precariously facing my downfall. Nervous, anxious, waiting for James to appear and demand I undress. Waiting for my own body to betray me, for my arms to reach for him of their own accord, shaming me once more. He’d hurt my pride one too many times, and even though I’d rather run naked through the house than give myself to him again, I admit the fact that he was ignoring me stung.
“Manipulative, controlling bastard,” I muttered.
I could not get the man from my mind. I’d bathed every blasted night yet swore I could still smell him, still feel his touch on my skin. And as much as I hated his scent, I couldn’t deny that a part of me craved it, craved him.
And so it was early the fifth day after my body had betrayed me by reacting to Jamie’s touch that I found myself wandering the halls, so early, that only the scullery maids were up and about, although none had seen me lurking in the shadows like some long-dead familial ghost.
Desperate to understand, I’d been searching for the ballroom. Something inside of me needed to see the paintings, hoped to explore this world where I suddenly resided and the portraits of the men who had built it. But I’d merely found myself lost.
With the sun just barely high enough to peek through the leaded glass windows and the house still and quiet, I made my way down the halls, deciding to explore the place that was my home.
The early morning stillness was made for contemplation, and I realized with little reluctance that it was time to accept my new reality: I would not be returning to my parents any time in the near future. Even if James allowed me to leave after I’d given birth to two boys, the process could take years. Years in which my father would wane…die.
Why hadn’t James arrived at my room those days ago for our appointed time? Was he bored with me? Tired of the fighting and bickering? I certainly didn’t blame him.
I knew my husband remained in residence as curiosity and desperation had forced me to ask the maid days ago, and she had admitted as much. The realization that he did not deem me important enough to visit was disheartening. Although why I cared, I wasn’t sure. Like a festering illness, the man would not leave me be.
It frightened me how my body reacted to his presence. Shocked me how I wanted him with a desperation that haunted my dreams. I was a masochist, for I knew desiring Jamie would only cause pain.
While my heart beat fiercely, begging for me to walk toward his chambers and surrender to my desires, my mind remained in control and I forced myself to stay as far away from his wing as possible. I hadn’t the stamina nor desire to spar with him this morn.
Two weeks. I’d been here for almost two weeks and it still felt as unfamiliar as another country. As isolated as a nunnery. As dark and depressing as hell itself. Was this punishment for earlier crimes? At times it felt as if so.
I started down the hall, knowing the many rooms I tip-toed by were empty. So many chambers. So much luxury. So much waste. Although our home had been large by many neighboring standards, every room was used, every chamber stuffed with family or servants. When I thought about how the money wasted here might provide my father with a better doctor it angered me. What use was there for ornate furniture in rooms that were never occupied?
But James hadn’t even believed my father was ill. He didn’t care. I trailed my fingers over the golden tassels that hung from the heavy burgundy drapes covering the floor to ceiling windows in the hall. Not a speck of dust. How many staff were in residence, I hadn’t a clue. I knew for sure that I had yet to meet them all. How could I be surrounded by so many, yet feel so alone?
I’d been six when I’d entered my parent’s room one morning. The sun had yet to rise and I was fearful of the dark. When I’d cracked the door open I’d seen my parents embracing, my mother giggling like a child as they kissed. She’d sounded so blasted happy in my father’s arms, it was a memory I’d kept with me all my life.
I’d left their room knowing even in my innocent mind that I shouldn’t have been there. But that memory had been stored away, for it had given me hope. Hope of respect and equality in a marriage. Of happiness and affection. That hope was fading fast. Would I ever know the comfort and safety of being in the arms of a husband who loved me? It was doubtful.
But nothing lasted. Even my parents and their perfect marriage would soon be over. I’d been here almost two weeks and still had yet to receive a letter from my family. No word on if they’d found Penny. No word on if my father had succumbed to his weak heart. I missed them so desperately that my very chest ached with a tight loneliness I’d never experienced before. Missed the dinners filled with conversation and laughter. Days of peace and safety. Moments spent dreaming of a future. Now, even my imagination had left me wanting.
I’d thought of writing to Cecilia and begging her to come here. Surely James couldn’t deny me the visit of a friend. But I didn’t want to subject her to this dreary house and my depressing company. How long would it take to get a letter across the country? A week? Two? Three? I might as well have been across the ocean, for the distance felt as far. How I longed for merely a token of their presence in this world.
“Clean the west wing,” someone said, the voice drifting down the hall and startling me. The noise was obscene in the quiet dawn. “Then start on the fireplaces downstairs.”
“Yes, Mum.”
No
t wanting to come across the maids and be fodder for more gossip, I reached for the closest bedroom door and shoved it open. Darkness surrounded me, held me close and comforted. I closed the door and pressed my ear against the panel, listening as the footsteps came closer. The scent of dust and old perfume assaulted my senses, tickling my nose. I screwed my eyes shut, forcing down the sneeze so desperate to release. Only when the footsteps faded, did my heart cease its maddening thump.
Even though the chamber was covered in dark shadows, I could see that the space was opulent. A large four poster bed stood between two windows covered with thick drapes. A massive fireplace was against the far wall and a mahogany wardrobe nestled against the opposite. Merely another chamber within hundreds? Something told me no.
Curious, I moved across the room, my footsteps softened by the thick carpet. Although the room was void of occupancy and obviously had been for some time, it felt alive, beating. I nudged open the curtains. Outside, it proved to be another dreary morning, that would no doubt press into another dreary day. Gray, misty, depressing. I leaned closer, pressing my nose to the cool glass. But there below, at one time, had been a garden. I could see the outlines of plots, the dried, overgrown flowers, the rocks placed around the edges as borders.
Whoever had resided in this chamber had perhaps desired more, as did I. Needed the reassurance of colorful blooms. The knowledge that there was other than stillness and gray. I turned to face the room. It was certainly designed for a female, if the golden brocade and flowered wall paper was any indication. It was a lovely room done in ivory with highlights of bronze. A room for a princess. A queen. I touched the silken blue bedspread, needing the reassurance that I didn’t dream this space. Who had slept here? Someone of importance, for sure.
I felt as if I’d found a secret haven, a place where I might be safe, welcome. As if this chamber had merely been waiting for me all along. Unwilling to leave just yet, I moved across the room, studying every detail. This is where I’d reside, if given the choice. But I wasn’t given the choice. It was only as I reached the marble fireplace that the painting above the mantel caught my attention. A woman with children. Suddenly, I realized whose room I stood in.
Jamie’s long dead mother.
A shiver raced down my spine. The very woman who had given birth to the man who had somehow taken over my life, my soul. Caught by the fingertips of fascination, I moved across the carpet toward the cold hearth.
It was a large oil painting of a mother with her five children. Well done, but in the typical austere English style. She did not smile, but looked cold, grim-faced, her dark hair in a tight bun. Still, I couldn’t deny that she was beautiful. She held a young child, two knelt at her feet and the two oldest stood behind her. Of those eldest two, only one placed his hand upon her shoulder. The other stood apart. Alone. He couldn’t have been more than eight, perhaps ten.
“James,” I whispered.
“Aye,” someone replied from the doorway.
Shocked, I spun around.
It took a moment for my nonsensical brain to realize the old woman standing in the doorway was not some ghost out for revenge, but merely the old nanny. She said not another word but merely pinned me to the spot with a hard, unwavering gaze.
Was she following me? An embarrassed flush raced to my cheeks as I searched frantically for something to say. I’d been caught. Even as my shame intensified, I realized I was lady of the house and didn’t need an excuse. Why should I feel embarrassed exploring my own home?
Tilting my chin high, I stared the woman down. “It’s nice to see you again,” I said politely. I had been taught, after all, to be a lady.
She, apparently had not been taught, for she didn’t respond. She was the oldest woman I’d ever seen. Her back rounded with age, her hair a thin white cloud that surrounded her pale, wrinkled face. But those eyes…those eyes were as bright and knowing as one half her age. Hard eyes. Bitter eyes. I didn’t trust her in the least.
“Is it?” she inquired.
And obviously she didn’t trust me.
I forced myself to smile. I felt like a silly child playing house under her astute gaze. “Of course. We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Julianna,” I said. “And you are?”
“Mrs. Pickens,” the nursemaid muttered, her narrowed gaze sweeping my form and finding me wanting. “I was the boys’ nursemaid and their stepmother’s before them.”
Apparently James had a soft spot for the woman to let her stay on. It should have said something about the man, that he could care. If anything it made me more uneasy. I frowned, knowing this woman might be taking care of my children in a year or two. She would hold them in her scrawny arms, would glare down at them with those beady eyes, dump them in their ice-baths when they misbehaved.
“You’ve found the dowager’s room,” she said.
Had I imagined the hardness in her voice? It was as if she was warning me away. I had to remind myself that I belonged here as much as she did. Even more.
“Yes.” Yet, something didn’t feel right. The room seemed warm, welcoming in some inexplicable way. Yet the painting of the cold woman above did not match. I stepped closer to the portrait. “What was his mother like?”
“Weak and silly, but that’s not her.”
Startled, I glanced over my shoulder. She was serious.
“That’s the current dowager. His mother is long dead.”
Confused, I looked around the chamber. “This was his mother’s room, yet a portrait of his stepmother hangs here?”
“Indeed,” she hissed, as if taking offense to my questioning tone.
So the portrait was of Jamie’s stepmother. That made much more sense. A cold, heartless woman, she did not touch the children with love. There was no feeling emanating from her features.
If she hadn’t resided in this room, why did her portrait hang above the fireplace? Because someone had wanted to prove a point, was my bet. Jamie’s stepmother was lady of the house now. She owned it all…even the long dead Lady Whitfield’s room.
“She did not reside here though,” I murmured my thought aloud. The room felt much too warm and homey. “His stepmother.”
“The dowager did not,” Pickens replied. “She preferred the west, so the sun didn’t wake her.”
While Jamie’s mother preferred to be woken with the dawn. Preferred flowers underneath her windows. I wondered what she looked like. Wondered if there was a painting of her somewhere in the home. Would Jamie have been open and caring had his mother lived, providing him with love and kindness? I pushed that thought aside and focused upon the portrait. I knew the youngest boys were Will, Oliver and Rafe. The man standing toward the side, away from the rest was so obviously Jamie that I didn’t need to look twice to know.
“Who is the older boy? The one with his hand upon the dowager’s shoulder?”
“That would be the eldest, Michael.”
The eldest? But Jamie was the heir, which meant… “He—”
“Died. Aye.”
So much death. “They don’t look much alike.”
“Because they had different mothers.”
Slowly the pieces started to fall into place. This Michael was the current dowager’s son, yet was older than Jamie, which meant he had been born…a bastard. Lord, the family was cursed.
I studied Jamie’s handsome face. Even at eight his eyes had become shrouded, his features hard. A dead father, brother, mother? Despite my best efforts to close off my emotions toward the man, my heart ached for the boy in that painting. While my childhood had been ripe with laughter and affection, he’d endured so very much at such a young, young age.
Why won’t you let me in? Tell me what you’re thinking, Jamie. What you’re feeling.
Perhaps because he was too far gone down that dark, lonely road. Mayhap there was no hope for the man who had experienced such heartache at such a tender age. The thought made me morose and heavy. Jamie had been forced to watch his mother die, then stand aside while h
is father’s mistress and bastard son swooped in.
“What sort of boy was James?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
She snorted in disgust. I tore my attention from the painting. The look of utter contempt upon her gnarled face shocked and worried me. “Arrogant. Thought he knew better than anyone. Hated when people told him what to do. Made his parent’s lives a veritable hell.”
No. I couldn’t believe it. I glanced at the boy in the painting once more. If he’d been so dastardly, if he’d been so abusive, why did Pickens continue to live here?
“Surely he wasn’t that bad,” I said, feeling the stirrings of loyalty, although he deserved none. Still, he was my husband and I would have all the facts, not the obviously tainted memories of some old crone with a grudge.
“Not bad?” With a wicked snarl of a smile upon her twisted lips, she shuffled toward me. “You do know the rumors, don’t you?”
I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to have this conversation with her. What was she getting at? Surely she was up to no good, if the gleam in her eyes was any indication. I shook my head, confused and yes, intrigued. “What rumors?”
She clutched her hands in front of her chest, the excitement in her pale eyes disgusting and slightly fascinating. “Why, the rumor that Jamie shot his own father and half-brother for the title.”
Heated anger overtook my fear. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She narrowed her eyes, a look of pure evil in her gaze. She hated Jamie. For some reason, something had happened between the two that made her hate the man I’d married. “I’ve known the boy since he was born. He killed his father and brother for that title. For you see, his father was going to try and make Michael the heir. And when his stepmother tried to prove his guilt, Jamie shoved her into the dowager house and never visited her again.”
I was suddenly very much aware that I was in an isolated part of the estate with a madwoman. Was the entire house insane? At times it appeared so. I didn’t belong here. I belonged in sunny Dorset with my kind and loving family. “That’s ridiculous.”