by Julie Daines
Mr. Shadwell took another swallow of his drink. “He knows I know. Why do you think he wants to keep you away from me? He doesn’t want you to find out. It’ll turn you against him.”
He could not seriously expect her to believe such an outlandish assertion. Mr. Northam had tried to keep her away from Mr. Shadwell, but only because he was trying to help Hayter.
“I can see you’ve had enough truth for one day.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. “I wish you the best with your life and your pursuit of Mr. Hayter.”
He scraped his chair back and left.
Marianne leaned forward onto the table. It had to be lies. There was no way Mr. Northam was the son of that man. Mr. Northam was so kind. So civil. She had come to care for him deeply, even in so short a time as she’d known him.
But to be the son of Bartholomew Hayter. It was unforgivable that he would say nothing of it. Hayter had said nothing either. No glance of knowing between the two of them—at least none that she could see.
It must be lies.
It had to be.
She left the inn and made her way back to Green Street. She barely noticed the lovely structures she passed. St. Mary’s Chapel. Queen’s Square.
Mr. Northam had been very vague when she’d asked him questions about his family. More than vague, he had not answered a single one. And he had seemed determined to keep her away from Mr. Shadwell. It would also explain how he knew about Bartholomew Hayter’s attack on her family and how he alone managed to find her.
It all made sense, and yet it didn’t fit together at all. Bartholomew Hayter was also tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair. She’d never once looked at Mr. Northam and seen any similarities between the two, but she’d never considered a need to.
Holy saints. What if it was true?
The moment Marianne entered the house, Mrs. Strumpshaw came running. “Oh, my dear. Mr. Northam has just dropped off the most lovely gown I’ve ever seen for the ball in the assembly rooms tomorrow.”
“Mr. Northam was here?” Her heart pounded at the thought of meeting him. She was not ready for a confrontation.
“No, no. ’Twas a delivery. Now, I’ve laid it out on your bed so you can see it for yourself.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Strumpshaw.”
Marianne climbed the stairs, still in shock at the idea of meeting Mr. Northam again. If Mr. Shadwell was lying—which he must be—she should not feel so uncomfortable. But inside, she was wrestling a den of snakes.
On her bed lay a silk gown of silvery blue trimmed in a delicate embroidery of midnight. A pile of matching ribbon for her hair lay beside it, along with a pair of dancing slippers. It was beautiful—and must have cost him a good penny.
Perhaps she should not even attend the ball. The thought of dancing with the son of Bartholomew Hayter sickened her. But it was Mr. Northam. To not attend pulled painfully on the strings of her heart.
She had no proof, no confirmation that what Mr. Shadwell had said was true. She only had his word to go on. But was that not what she’d asked the jury to go on when she gave her testimony today at the inquest? She expected to be believed and yet doubted the testimony of Mr. Shadwell.
The difference was, she’d told the truth.
The only way to know for certain would be to ask Mr. Northam herself. After all he’d done for her, he deserved nothing less. Judgment could wait until she had his word. He might be very good at the wearing of masks, but this was something he could not hide.
She would go to the assembly rooms tomorrow night and let Mr. Northam himself be the one to tell her whether or not it was a lie.
Marianne stood on the dance floor, her dress glowing like moonlight in the light of the many burning candles. The room was filled with people she did not recognize. Until a tall, broad-shouldered man came forward. Mr. Northam. He looked ever so handsome in his dress coat and dark breeches. He came close, smiling at her like he did that day in Sydney Garden.
He leaned in for a kiss. “Yours is a pretty face,” he said, his eyes glowing yellow in the burning fire. A knife glinting in his hands.
“Get off me,” she cried, but his yellow eyes only moved closer.
“Miss Wood!”
Marianne opened her eyes to find Mrs. Strumpshaw standing over her. This must be the fourth time she’d come in and woken her from a nightmare tonight. She thought they’d come to an understanding that Mrs. Strumpshaw need not attend her every time she had a bad dream, but the woman insisted. The lack of sleep had to be taking its toll on the older woman.
“Thank you, Mrs. Strumpshaw,” she said again, rubbing her hand across her eyes. This was the first time the evil in her nightmares had been anyone other than Bartholomew Hayter.
“Just when I thought you were gettin’ over it, and now ’tis worse than ever. Are you sure you don’t want me to fetch Mr. Northam? My Jamie’s just below stairs, and he can run over there afore you can say pigs in a pie.”
“No.” Marianne sat up to drink the glass of water Mr. Strumpshaw handed her. “I am well. I’m used to this.” She would get out of bed in the morning, as she always did, and pretend she was fine. Because that was what must be done.
Mrs. Strumpshaw gave her a dubious look, then left, her feet plodding heavily on the stairs.
Marianne lit a candle and opened her book. She was nearing the end of the novel, where nearly every person in Adeline’s life turned out to be something other than what they appeared. Marianne thought that kind of deceit only happened in novels. Now she must reconsider.
She passed the day quietly in her rooms, partaking of the few books in the library, talking with Mrs. Strumpshaw, and playing several games of backgammon with Jamie. She took her time getting ready for the ball. Mrs. Strumpshaw assembled the ribbons and a strand of pearls into her hair with surprising skill.
When the door sounded with a thud, her heart did the same. Mr. Northam.
She had already decided that if it was true, she would still testify in the trial, but that would be her only contact with Mr. Northam. She could not be friends with him if he was the son of Bartholomew Hayter.
Mrs. Strumpshaw opened the door. It was a footman only. Mr. Northam had sent a carriage to pick her up rather than come himself.
He was looking more and more guilty all the time. He must have known she would seek out Mr. Shadwell and that now she knew. Why else would he avoid her? His final words to her made sense. He wanted to tell her how he felt before she learned the truth. He knew she couldn’t bear the sight of him after.
The carriage made its way the few blocks to the assembly rooms. She could hear the music already the moment the footman opened the door.
She stood among the throng. Without Mr. Northam, she had no escort nor a ticket to get in. Perhaps it would have been better if she’d stayed at home.
“Miss Wood,” called a woman’s voice.
Marianne turned to find Mrs. Cricklade striding forward. She was surprised the lady had remembered her name.
“I see Mr. Northam has abandoned you, but I am instructed to take good care of you.” She hooked her hand through Marianne’s arm. “Come.”
She tugged Marianne though the door, presenting a ticket for her, and walked her up to the ballroom.
“Here.” She sighed with pleasure. “Here is the ballroom. I’m never more at home anywhere than I am in a ballroom.” She smiled at Marianne. “We must find you a partner.” Mrs. Cricklade scoured the room. “Ah. Perfect.”
She dragged Marianne around the edge of the crowd until they arrived in front of a man somewhat close to Marianne’s age.
“Mr. Fontaine, may I introduce you to Miss Wood? She is in town on business but has taken time to come to the assemblies tonight.”
Mr. Fontaine bowed cordially. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Marianne curtsied.
“How long are you in Bath?” he asked.
“I leave tomorrow.”
“What a pity,” he said. He had learned his manners well. A g
overness somewhere should be very proud. “I had better not waste my time then. Would you do me the honor of the next dance?”
“Thank you.” She might as well enjoy herself even if Mr. Northam was not here. Mr. Fontaine seemed genial enough. And easy to look at.
After Mr. Fontaine, it was Mr. Miller. Then Mr. Richards.
She’d only had a few turns before Mr. Richards did not appear to take her hand when the steps called for it. Mr. Northam had taken his place.
“I see you are not advertising as a governess this evening,” he said.
She did a turn, following the dance. “Where have you been?” He looked better than ever tonight.
“Hiding.” He smiled, his mask on and the game in full play. “But before we discuss all that, I was hoping we could complete the formalities.”
The dance separated them for a few moments before coming together for a poussette. “Hello, Miss Wood,” he said. “Allow me to compliment you on how stunning you look this evening.”
“Is that a formality?”
“Quite the contrary.” He took her hand for the turn. “Those are the truest words I’ve ever spoken.”
She let go of him, and they separated again, turning around another couple. He had a way with words and could no doubt charm the socks off a beggar. Had she not spent the majority of the night dreaming of him attacking her, she would have succumbed instantly. But there were things she needed to know first. Truths to uncover.
“There now, the formalities are over,” he said. “As is the dance.”
She stood apart from him and curtsied. He offered his hand to lead her from the floor, but she refused. “No more games, Mr. Northam, if you please.”
He did not look happy. “I know who you have been speaking with, and I know what has been said.”
“Then it’s true?”
He pinched his lips together. “Yes.”
She turned her back on him. How could he? To spend all this time with her. Comfort her. Summon her down from Shrewsbury to help get his own father hanged.
He walked around to face her. “Miss Wood, would you accompany me outside for some air? Perhaps we can talk more privately.”
Yes. Air. That was exactly what she needed. And to talk without the music blaring in her ears. She followed Mr. Northam as he pushed his way through the crush and out into the cool night air. Then she could go no farther. She reached for his arm and pulled him around.
“How could you not tell me he is your father?” It was absurd to think that Mr. Northam could have any connection with the devil, but he had confirmed it himself.
He ducked under a colonnade, and she followed. “I did not know him as a father. Not ever. As you can imagine, Miss Wood, he was not the kind of man to settle down and raise a family. When I was still a babe, my mother married a different man, Mr. George Northam. He raised me as his own, or so I thought.”
It was kind of George Northam to take on another man’s son. Not all gentlemen would do so.
“When my stepfather died, he left all of his wealth to my mother and his own son, my half brother. This surprised me greatly. It was then that my mother finally explained to me about my real father and told me his name. We didn’t fully understand then the kind of man he had turned out to be. There had been no contact whatsoever for the whole of my life.”
How awful to be raised believing you are a true son, only to be left with nothing. That must have hurt him deeply. Still, he could have said something. But he had not. He’d lied to her and used her to witness against his own father.
“This does not explain why you’ve been lying to me.” If he lied about this, who knew what else he was hiding? Her trust in him snapped like a rose stem in winter.
“I used my connections with judges and other magistrates to find Bartholomew Hayter.”
A couple strolled by, arm in arm. A husband and wife, it seemed, laughing and leaning close. Mr. Northam waited until they passed before continuing, “You must imagine the repulsion I felt to discover that my true father was a monster. That was when I decided to become a barrister and do what I could to right his wrongs.” He looked down at the paving stones beneath his feet. “I will, of course, understand completely if you never want to see me again.”
“You are a player of games, Mr. Northam. And now I see I am simply another pawn for you to manipulate—a means to an end.”
“Miss Wood—”
“You did not tell me the full story of King Bladud, did you?” She pointed an angry finger at him. “About how he tried to fly but landed on Salisbury Church. Because you knew this would be my end also.” She had fallen for him, only to find herself pierced through the heart.
“Marianne—”
“I will do what I can to bring Bartholomew Hayter to justice. Not for you. For my family.”
“Mr. Northam,” called a man from the door. He strode over, bowing respectfully to Mr. Northam. “I must speak with you urgently.”
“Can it wait?” Mr. Northam asked.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but this cannot. The magistrate asks to see you directly.”
“It is fine, sir,” Marianne said to the man. “I was just leaving. Goodbye, Mr. Northam.”
He called after her, but she did not turn. She couldn’t. No matter how much she enjoyed his company, no matter how her heart tried to pull her back, he was the son of Bartholomew Hayter. She could never forget that.
Marianne set off on foot, not bothering to wait for Mr. Northam’s carriage. It was only a few blocks down Milsom Street to Green Street. Her slippers would be ruined, but she hardly cared.
How could Mr. Northam be such a traitor? She’d always known he was hiding something behind his masks, but she never imagined this. She must take her feelings for Mr. Northam and bury them as deep as her family in the cold, hard ground.
The night grew cold, and she wished she’d brought a shawl or a cloak. She hurried on until she reached her front door.
“You’re home early,” Mrs. Strumpshaw said with surprise. “I hope you enjoyed yourself at the ball.”
“As it turned out,” Marianne said, “there wasn’t anybody there worth dancing with.”
Mrs. Strumpshaw stared at her as if she’d just said almond tea cakes weren’t worth eating.
“I’m unwell this evening. I think I’ll go straight to bed.”
Mrs. Strumpshaw nodded. “Very well, dear. I’ll bring you up your tea and tonic.”
Marianne trudged up the stairs to her room. She made an attempt to unbutton her gown, but she could not reach the lower back. She should have asked Mrs. Strumpshaw to help her undress before going for the tea. She removed the slippers from her feet and placed them on the dressing table. The heel was already in shreds. Then she unwound the ribbons from her hair, coiling them around her fingers and placing them beside the pearls.
It was back to governess for her.
There was not much more she could do without Mrs. Strumpshaw to help her out of her dress. Marianne sat on the edge of her bed then flopped back to wait.
What a disaster this trip had been. At least the inquest had been a success. It would have all been much easier if Mr. Northam had been the antiquated barrister she’d pictured in her head. Long in the teeth, low in the ears.
It was taking Mrs. Strumpshaw a long time. Usually, she had the water boiling and ready to go by the time Marianne was ready for bed.
She closed her eyes. In truth, she did have a bit of a headache.
This is what she deserved after letting her heart get carried away. She should have known better, that nothing good could come from anything associated with Bartholomew Hayter.
Would to God that that man had never crossed paths with her and her family. But then she would never have met Mr. Northam. Even if it had only been for a week, he’d been a light in the dark to her. A quiet port in the midst of a tempestuous sea.
It seemed impossible that such a man could be the offspring of the most vile man on earth. Perhaps she’d been too ha
sty to dismiss him because of it. But how could she not, when every moment with him would only be another reminder of her loss?
Had Mrs. Strumpshaw completely forgotten about her? Tea did not take this long, and she desperately wanted to get out of her dress.
A hand pressed on her mouth. Marianne’s eyes flew open.
She stared into the yellow eyes of Bartholomew Hayter.
Chapter Nine
Strong and Brave
Marianne tried to scream. His hand only clamped down harder upon her mouth. She writhed to get out from under him, but a cold blade stung against her throat and she lay still. This was no dream. He was here. In her room.
“Surprised to see me, pretty lady?”
Marianne could not reply, but he did not wait for one.
“I’m on my way out of town. Need ta tie up a few loose ends afore I go.”
She knew it. In her heart, she had always known it would end this way—that the man who’d threatened her from the edge of the trees would one day find her and finish her. She should have stayed tucked away in Shrewsbury. She’d been a fool to ever think she could survive so much evil.
“I warned you, didn’t I? I told you ta keep yer mouth tight. But you didn’t listen. Now I get ta finish what I started.”
He pulled the front of her dress down, exposing the mark he’d left on her two years ago. “Feels good, don’t it, ta finally finish something that’s been left undone?”
His knife slid from her neck down to the scar. He pressed the steel harder, and the warmth of her blood burned against the cold of his blade. She gasped, but no sound fit between his fingers. This was the end for her.
She tried to find something to defend herself. Her room was barren of any kind of weapon, and even if she had something, she could not reach it.
Her book was there. The Romance of the Forest. It was small, but better than nothing. She stretched her hand out, all the while he was upon her, holding her down. At last, she managed to get her fingers around the book.
With all her strength, she swung it at his face.