“No shame,” she whispered. “It’s just that I think I might love you.”
A grin burst across his face and his chest swelled. Though he knew he had to be smiling like a giddy school boy, he didn’t care. She had admitted what he’d known all along: that they were meant for each other.
She hid her flushing face against his chest, and Robert grinned again. Her shyness was adorable, and he could feel her smiling against him. As he looked down at her, stroking her hair, he noticed a small mark on her neck—from him. It stirred him, and he shifted against her. But as he nuzzled behind her ear, her stomach suddenly gurgled loudly in the silence of the room.
She clutched at it as though she could hide the fact. But then his did the same, as though she’d reminded him of how little they’d eaten.
Yesterday had been a whirlwind. First had come the tragic news that had devastated him, but then had come his beautiful Gwen and their glorious love-making. Only one matter still separated them.
“I know you have yet to give me your answer,” he said gravely. “But I’m afraid we have a more pressing question.”
She pulled back to look up at him. “Robert, what is it?”
“Who is going to cook the bacon?” he said, and then grinned.
“Oh, you,” she exclaimed and thumped his chest, as he laughed and pulled her atop him.
Chapter 11
As Gwen fried the spattering bacon, Robert came up behind her with the basket of eggs, and wrapped an arm around her waist.
“I like to think of this as practice for when we can have a small house of our own,” he said. “It’d be a charming country cottage where we wouldn’t need any servants. It would be just the two of us, together.”
Gwen could think of nothing more pleasant in all the world, but she kept silent. Even now she could still not quite believe that they’d made love, and that he’d actually proposed.
She had to remind herself that he might not be quite in charge of his emotions. He’d only just had a great shock with the death of his father. Were she to accept him and they married, would he quickly regret his hasty decision? It was all a muddle in her mind. Perhaps her reservations were shared by all prospective brides. If only she could consult with Regina. She would surely know.
Gwen’s brow furrowed as the thought of her vanished sister sent a twinge of guilt into her chest. Here she was, enjoying domestic bliss, while her sister was still missing.
When Robert nuzzled the side of her neck, she patted his arm. “Before we plan a household, perhaps we should see to breakfast. The pan for the eggs is just here.”
As he moved to her side, she stole a glance at him. How happy and peaceful he looked as he went about cracking each egg into the pan.
She glanced down at his feet. “You no longer need your cane,” she observed.
“No,” he agreed. “It would seem that…um…not being on my feet most of yesterday has seen to its quick mending.”
She smiled a little as she turned back to the stove. “Did you encounter Parks on your way to the chicken coop?”
Robert nodded. “Indeed I did. It was he who collected this morning’s new eggs.” He smiled at her. “He was good enough not to inquire as to our whereabouts yesterday.”
“No new servants yet I suppose,” she said, flipping the bacon.
“I’m afraid not,” he confirmed, his smile fading. “It would seem Dredthorne Hall’s reputation has preceded it.”
When he finished with the eggs, he also managed to find bread and make some toast. Once again they breakfasted at the makeshift dining table, drinking the weak tea that Robert had made. The toast was only slightly burned so they ate their fill as they chatted about the weather and wondered how the kitchen gardens were faring without a gardener. It was as though they were determined to return to some type of normalcy. But even as they talked about inconsequential things, his idea of having a little house together was growing more interesting by the moment.
“What are you going to do today?” Robert asked, before making a face into his cup. “I really do need to learn how to make a decent cup of tea. This is horrible.”
“You didn’t steep it long enough,” she said. “And the water was not hot enough. I think I’m going to set the journals into order by date. It’s clear that Mrs. Thorne’s illness had much to do with whatever happened afterwards. What I’d like to find out is whether she died, when Miss Wilson disappeared, and what Mr. Thorne had to do with all of this.” He nodded. “And you?”
Now his expression turned grim, a bleak reminder of yesterday’s news. “I must reply to my mother.” He reached across the table and took her hand in his. “I know that we would both like to stay here for the sake of our wayward siblings, but my father’s….funeral will not be delayed long. I will not leave you alone here, Gwen.”
“Nor would I stay,” she declared. “No, I shall return to Renwick to give my parents the awful news in person that I must abandon the search for Regina, if indeed that is what happens.” Robert’s face fell but she gripped his hand more tightly. “Of course we shall come to you in London, to meet your mother and pay our respects at your father’s service.”
“Thank you, dearest Gwen,” he said, squeezing her hand.
Together they took the dishes to the scullery kitchen’s sink, where he paused to look at her. Though his eyes roamed over her face and lingered on her mouth, he simply took her face in his hands and gently kissed her forehead.
“I must write that letter,” he said, holding her at arm’s length for a second before letting her go. “Then I will send it with Parks and see what needs to be done in the stable.”
As she watched him leave, she nearly called him back. Though she didn’t feel she could give him an answer, parting from him simply made her heart ache. But as they’d said, there were things to do, so she took off her apron, hung it on the peg where she’d found it, and went to the secret library.
Before she began arranging the leather-bound books in order, however, she picked up one of the later ones that still lay open and read it again.
Dear Journal –
I have found Mr. Thorne! He was indeed in London. I needn’t have worried. But that slattern Miss Wilson has commenced in haunting my lonely halls. I find strands of her hair in my hairbrush, I can smell her scent on my husband. When he and I make love, I know that he is thinking of her. He is so very distracted and he claims that it is business matters, but I know better.
There has to be a way to get him back. The shadows are creeping closer to me, watching every movement I make. I don’t know how she’s sending the shadows to me, but I know that it is her. There are no other answers. They watch me as I undress, as I spend time with Mr. Thorne, and part of me begins to wonder if the shadows are not her, but him. Perhaps it is he that wants me so troubled and worried.
As I think on it, it seems even more possible that my husband would want to trick me into this insanity, make me question and worry about my mind. Perhaps he is punishing me for not giving him his child.
It was frightfully clear to Gwen that the poor woman was in the grips of something, be it madness or illness. From this vantage point in time, she couldn’t tell which. But something was deeply troubling Mrs. Thorne, even if it was just an illness that caused her to see things that were not there.
Gwen smoothed a finger over the text. Could illness and madness really be confused for one another, she wondered, and closed the book. As she looked across the table surveying the collection of journals, there were only a few facts that were undisputed: a courtesan had joined the Thornes at Dredthorne; Mrs. Thorne had died; Miss Wilson had gone missing. Everything else was speculation.
Even so, Gwen felt in her heart that the answers were somewhere on the table before her. But before she undertook her task, she decided to commit some thoughts to her own journal.
As she sat down to write, she paused for a moment, contemplating what needed to be written.
Dear Journal,
Yesterday, Robert and I made love for the first time, and then again. I find myself more than smitten with him. Truthfully, I know what my answer will be to his proposal, but I cannot find it in myself to say it just yet. I am frightened to commit to this course without knowing for sure that he is committed for the right reasons.
I know that Robert wouldn’t hurt me on purpose, but could he hurt me accidentally?
What does his mother think? Does she even know that Robert had feelings for me when he left? I cannot imagine that she wouldn’t know. He told me that he had had feelings for me from the start, even before our parents decided that Regina and Christopher should become betrothed.
I wonder what would have happened if they had arranged for Robert and I instead. We seem quite suited for each other; even in the disaster of having all of the servants desert us, we are managing quite well in such a large place. If I try, I might even remember how to sew!
But I also can’t help but think that, though we are not married, our union will mean that the curse descends on me.
Just then the barely audible sound of a moan drifted to her. Gwen went still, straining to hear it. It’d been days since she’d heard the dim sobs and moans, and without realizing it, she’d almost convinced herself that they hadn’t been real. But there it was again. She was sure of it. Though she waited an interminable period and even held her breath, the sound didn’t come again.
“Could it have been the wind?” she whispered, looking out of the secret library to the dining room windows. But the sky was clear and the trees were still.
She put a shaky pen to her journal.
I have heard the noise again. Does it mean that I’m already going mad, and just do not know it yet?
* * *
After Parks had left to post his letter, Robert took the opportunity to attend to the stable without the mare in her stall. As he expected, the enclosure badly needed to be mucked out. Robert donned Jonathan’s high boots, though they were a bit tight, and fetched the shovel and fork that had been hanging with the other tools, putting them in the wheelbarrow that he rolled to the stall.
Despite the odious smell, Robert took a strange comfort in the task. Because Parks had been watering and feeding Gwen’s mare, Robert hadn’t been to the stable since that day in the storm. It felt good to be outdoors, and it occurred to him that perhaps Gwen and he should take a turn around the gardens later.
For now though he simply shoveled the muck into the wheelbarrow, and when it was full he took it outside and dumped it in the manure pile. When the shoveling was complete, he looked around for fresh bedding, but there was none in the stable. Though he’d barely taken notice of them before, Robert remembered the haystacks that were stored in the barn next door. It turned out the wheelbarrow was a handy tool.
What had begun as a simple wish to make sure that the horse’s hooves were dry was turning into quite the day. Using the pitchfork, he not only loaded the wheelbarrow with hay, but used the same implement to spread it in the stall. As he replaced those tools in their respective places, his gaze fell on the wide broom. A glance at the various paths he’d used during his mucking and fetching hay showed him that he’d added to the mess left by the storm.
As he swept away the debris, he recalled his conversation with Gwen in the kitchen. Is this what his days would become if they found some pleasant country house to make their own? If going home to Gwen every evening meant he’d muck stalls every day, it’d be a price he would gladly pay.
He imagined their days together, in that nonexistent country house. There would be bacon and eggs every morning, and her in his bed every night. How quickly she had responded to him, giving herself completely. Every inch of her had proved as luscious as he’d—many times—imagined. But the intense joy of their love-making had truly taken him by surprise. He would fill her with it, with him, until she screamed his name again. He could still hear it on her lips, and his cock swelled in response.
The sound of horse hooves clattering on the brick drive, stopped his reverie. When Robert went outside, he saw that Parks had returned.
“Sir, is that you there in those boots?” his valet called to him.
Robert waved. “Yes, Parks. I got it in my head to get some physical activity. It does no good to brood indoors.”
Robert watched Parks maneuver the rig inside, and helped him to unhitch the mare. Then he took her bridle and led the sweaty horse into the newly cleaned stall.
Although he intended to wipe her down and brush her, Parks handed him a bundle of envelopes and papers.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Your father’s steward has sent these to you, sir,” his valet replied. “I was told to bring them to you immediately.”
Of course. Now that his father was dead, Robert was the head of the household.
“I’ll attend to the mare and the rig, sir,” Parks said.
With a sigh, he set the bundle of papers aside while he changed his boots, and then took them into the house where he found Gwen in the secret library standing next to the table of journals. It looked as though she’d arranged them into two rows.
“Gwen, you’re still here?”
She brushed a stray tendril of hair from her forehead. “Yes,” she sighed, sounding exasperated. Then she saw the bundle in his hands. “What do you have there?”
“Papers from my father’s steward,” he said setting them down. “No doubt there are bills for the household in London to be paid, correspondence to be read, and investments to monitor.” He glanced down at the table. “What have you found?”
Crossing her arms in front of her, she frowned. “I think that Mr. and Mrs. Thorne were having marital problems.” She glanced at one of the rows. “Mr. Thorne was always away for business, and having the courtesan at the hall was too much for Mrs. Thorne. She’d begun to feel like Mr. Thorne was in love with Miss Wilson. Shortly after the entry where she wrote about her suspicions, she took sick.”
“What happened?”
She pointed to the second row. “Mr. Thorne started a journal at the time she fell ill. But the journals tell very different stories to those of his wife. He writes that he had begun to stay at the hall more to care for her, and that he had sent Miss Wilson to town with the steward to collect some medications for her when the courtesan went missing.” She pointed to the first row. “While Mrs. Thorne said that she never saw her husband again, and that he ran away with Miss Wilson. In fact, she believed Miss Wilson and her husband were trying to kill her. At about the same time, Mr. Thorne’s journal says that his wife succumbed to madness and illness.” She threw up her hands. “Then they both end, without any way to resolve them.”
Robert frowned. “So who do we believe?” he asked. “It’s clear that either way, Beatrice Thorne passed on. But what took her? Mr. Thorne and his courtesan, or an illness? And what happened to the courtesan after everything else?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I’m going to see if there are any records of Mrs. Thorne’s passing in the house. Perhaps that’s one question we can sort out.”
“All right,” he said. “What can I do?”
“You can contact the doctor,” she said, surprising him. “I was going to send a letter, but I don’t know his name. Maybe he had a mentor, or perhaps one of his predecessors cared for Mrs. Thorne and there are medical records somewhere.”
“His name is Dr. Thackery and I think that’s a wonderful idea. I’ll write to him immediately.” When she didn’t respond, he asked, “Is something bothering you?”
Gwen frowned down at the table. “Something about Mr. Thorne’s journals are strange—not that his wife’s aren’t as well. But his entries spoke of nothing but love for his wife with only one mention of Miss Wilson. He’d had her at the hall since shortly after his wedding, yet he only mentions her when he says he sent her to town for medicine.”
“You sound like you have a theory,” he urged her on. It was fascinating to watch her put the pieces of this old puzz
le together.
“I think it’s possible that Mrs. Thorne killed Miss Wilson out of jealousy and also fear,” she said slowly. “Her entries become increasingly disturbing, saying that she believes someone or something is watching her. She imagined Miss Wilson was skulking around the hallways, trying to take Mr. Thorne from her.”
“Poor woman,” Robert said quietly.
“There’s more to it,” Gwen said. “I also think it’s possible that Mr. Thorne might have covered for the murder. I’ve also started to wonder if Mr. Thorne had something to do with her illness.” She paused and swallowed hard, looking into his eyes. “Robert,” she whispered. “I’ve heard the moaning…this morning.”
He immediately went to her and folded his arms around her to find that she was trembling. “Gwen, dearest.”
“I thought it’d stopped,” she said into his chest. “I truly thought it had.”
Rubbing his hand down her back, he said, “Look, we’ve both been working hard all day. A bit of dinner will do us both some good. Let me brew a pot of weak tea and see if I can’t find something cold in the larder.”
Though he tried to pull way from her, she clung to him. “You do believe me, don’t you, Robert?”
“Of course,” he said tilting up her chin. “No question. If you say it’s so, then I believe it.” Lightly he brushed his lips against hers. “Now let me see to our dinner.”
As he rummaged in the dry larder where he’d found the bread, he heard Gwen at the scullery sink washing dishes. By the time he found a cured ham and a round of cheddar cheese, she’d laid the dining table with plates, cutlery and fresh linen, and also lit the candles. They sat together at the corner, as usual, but he let his foot stray to keep in touch with hers.
As they ate, he regaled her with tales of wheelbarrows and haystacks. To his relief, her mood improved and she seemed her old self. Tomorrow he vowed he would get her into the gardens.
“Though we may not have any dessert,” Robert said, pushing away his empty plate, “I imagine I can uncork a sweet wine.”
Mistress of Darkness: Dredthorne Hall Book 2 Page 8