At his words, laced with lambent amusement, a chill snaked down her spine. “What do you mean, without resources?”
“Your account at the Bank of England? The one where your savings are deposited? I have closed it. Everything a woman owns is under the control of her husband.” Smiling down into her appalled eyes, he placed his hands on her waist. “What is yours…is mine.”
Like an inept dancer, she moved stiffly, her knees locked, her feet stumbling, as he twirled her out of the door and into the corridor.
“Sleep well, my darling.” He kissed her on the lips, stepped into his suite and shut the door in her dazed face.
Hidden by the shadows of the corridor, a figure observed as Hannah backed away from the door.
This development bore watching.
16
Hannah drove the pony cart through the cool April sunshine up the road toward Burroughs Hall. She had dressed in her best day costume: a chestnut-colored satin gown with full, tiered and embroidered skirt, a black-velvet jacket and her matching chestnut bonnet with ruched ribbon trim. Her black-leather gloves were steady on the reins, and to the onlooker, she knew she appeared to be calm. A calm belied by the number of times she had changed her clothing that morning, and by her heart, which insisted on thumping in a disturbing and unsteady beat.
But as the pony moved steadily toward the black-metal fencing that surrounded her grandparents’ estate, Hannah practiced speaking the unspeakable. Sir and madam, I don’t know if you are aware of my existence, but I’m the daughter of Miss Carola Tomlinson and your son, Henry.
Or—Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs, twenty-eight years ago, your son Henry loved my mother, Miss Carola Tomlinson, and I am the result.
Or—No doubt you’ve dreaded this day…
That was it, really. If her grandparents knew of her impending birth and had still sent her mother away without a shred of mercy, then they would not now want her in their lives. And even if they did, would she want them? Could she forgive them the misery of her early life and the sorrow of her mother’s early death? Mama had been only thirty-one when she died. Hannah was almost that now, and to think of death when she felt herself to be just reaching the peak of power, knowledge and strength—that would a bitterness beyond hope.
The main gate stood open, the house visible through the trees. Somewhere in the vicinity of her heart, a pressure built. A breathlessness and an ache of dread. And just before Hannah would have entered, would have taken that final, irrevocable step to fulfill her dream, she pulled the reins to the left and swung onto the side of the road. Stopping the pony, she climbed out of the cart onto the grass, damp with the previous day’s showers. Holding the reins in her hands, she stepped forward until her face was pressed between the metal bars.
She stared at the brick house, built in the Palladian style of the last century, mellow with ivy and crisp with white trim. It wasn’t too large, perhaps twenty rooms, the home of a well-to-do country family. The scythed lawns and mature trees framed the building, and like trim on a package, blooming roses climbed on arbors around the grounds. Burroughs Hall was beautiful, every orphan child’s fantasy.
Hannah couldn’t bring herself to drive forward, climb the stairs and lift the knocker. Her fingers tightened on the cool bars. Her parents had met there. They had fallen in love there. She had probably been conceived in one of those rooms close against the roof. But she didn’t belong. How could she? Her grandparents had driven her off before she had first seen day’s light.
The front door opened, and Hannah tensed. Who would it be? A man in an old-fashioned blue-satin livery and a powdered wig stepped onto the portico.
Hannah relaxed. A footman. He lifted his hand, and from the back came the jingle of tack and the clop of horses’ hooves. An open carriage drove up to the stairs, a young coachman in the driver’s seat. The footman and the coachman spoke. Hannah was too far away to hear even a whisper of their conversation, but she thought…surely this meant…yes, there he was, an upright old gentleman bristling with mustache and eyebrows, dressed in a brown suit. He walked out of the house, licked his finger and raised it to the wind. He nodded as if pleased, then pulled a silver watch from his pocket, opened it, and turned impatiently toward the door. In a deep, impatient voice, he called, “Alice, do you always have to make us late?”
A stooped lady dressed in maroon silk with a feathered bonnet joined him. Her feathers shook in a constant tremor. Hannah could see her lips moving, but she spoke like a lady should, quietly, and Hannah couldn’t hear a word.
Her throat dried as she stared, for the first time, on her only relatives in this world.
She didn’t think to move, to go forward or to go back. She could only stand and stare as the footmen placed the steps beside the coach and assisted first the elderly lady, then the old gentleman into the vehicle. The footmen shut the door, and only then did Hannah realize she should—no, she must—conceal herself. Quickly she led the pony and cart into the bushes, and the branches still rustled behind her as the carriage passed on the road.
Then, like the cowardly fool she was, she rushed back out and stood on the road, watching them ride away.
Her grandmother and grandfather, and she couldn’t even find the courage to show herself to them.
That night, as Hannah trudged to her bedchamber, the floorboards creaked wearily beneath her feet, and the corridor smelled of ancient grievances. The candle she held burned fearfully, afraid to light the corners or reach to the towering ceiling, and her loneliness weighed on her as never before.
“Because the loneliness has been compounded by cowardice,” she said aloud. She could blame Dougald for frightening her too much to go on, but that wasn’t the whole truth. Throughout the years, whenever she imagined meeting her family, terror had always mixed with the anticipation. Perhaps he had heightened the terror with his well-placed barbs, but if she were brave, she would have gone forward anyway. She opened the door to her room. “Don’t let me hear you whining about your desolation anymore, Hannah Alice.” In her inner eye rose the vision of her grandparents as they stepped into their carriage. “Not when you let such a golden opportunity slip away from you.”
Her vision disappeared when the single, rickety chair inside creaked, and a dark figure rose.
Hannah gave a squeak of fright.
In a low, furious tone, Dougald asked, “What in hell did you think you were doing, inviting Her Majesty to Raeburn Castle?”
“Must you sneak up on me like that?” She laid her palm flat over her pounding heart. Then, lifting the candle high, she illuminated him, his perennial scowl and his black, close-fitting, conservative suit in all its formality. He was such a handsome man, but she had no patience with his endless brooding and his skulking—his appearance now gave her no pleasure.
“Answer me. Why didn’t you tell me you invited the Queen?”
“You might have asked me to attend you downstairs. Besides,”—she mimicked him, “I don’t want to hear you nag.”
“Just answer the question. What in hell did you think you were doing, inviting Her Majesty to Raeburn Castle?”
He ground the question out from between clenched teeth—an interesting phenomenon, and one she’d like to view more of. But for the first time since she’d arrived, she faced the former Dougald, the one with a temper. The former Dougald had never done more than shout at her, but then, he had not been branded as a murderer at that time, either. So she answered with cool civility. “You told the aunts that I knew Her Majesty, but you wouldn’t speak to me to tell me what you wanted done about their desire to meet her.”
“I didn’t expect that you would extend an invitation to my home.” He enunciated each word.
“Well, I didn’t know that, did I?” She lit her candles, and feeble illumination fell on the neat, narrow bed, the chipped basin and pitcher, the musty draperies. “So instead of doing what you wished, which I would have done if you’d been willing to discuss it with me, I made the aunts happy by writing
to Her Majesty. I included their written invitation to come to view their humble tribute to her and her reign.”
Dougald withdrew a rich, ivory-colored paper from his waistcoat, and he stared at it as if it threatened to explode.
From here, Hannah could see the royal seal. Her Majesty’s polite refusal.
Dougald’s reaction to being the recipient of imperial correspondence surprised her. Some people stood in such awe of the Queen, they were unable to imagine having an exchange of letters with such an exalted personage, but she wouldn’t have expected it of Dougald. Rather charmed by Dougald’s amazement, she gently said, “Yes, Dougald, I admit it was audacious of me, but Her Majesty will not be insulted, if that is what worries you, and the aunts’ invitation was charming. They truly struck the right notes of eagerness, excitement and entreaty.”
The paper rattled as his fingers shook. “This was your revenge on me for not listening to you.”
Ah. So perhaps he was not in awe of the letter, but annoyed with the instigator. Hannah saw the need to pick her words carefully, for while it was true his unresponsiveness had given her an excuse to write the letter, it was also true she had written the Queen while in a rage. “Revenge is too strong a word; however, I admit I didn’t care if you were perturbed. I didn’t appreciate you treating me in such a cavalier manner.”
“Cavalier?” he roared loudly enough that she started.
When she recovered, she shook out her skirt in a display of assurance, but she kept him in her wary gaze. “Goodness, Dougald, there’s no reason to take on so! You’ve got an answer, and that’s good. Now we have something to show the aunts. They’ll be disappointed, of course, but having a letter addressed to them from the Queen should soothe the sting of rejection.”
Dougald lifted his head and stared at her.
Impatiently, she exclaimed, “Dougald, I don’t know why you’re acting this way. At least she didn’t accept!”
“She did.”
Impossible. Hannah opened her mouth to say so, but nothing came out.
“Yes, exactly!” he said, just as if she’d spoken. Opening the letter, he read, “ ‘Her Gracious Majesty, Victoria, Queen of England, accepts your courteous invitation—’ ”
Still mute, still numb, Hannah shook her head.
“She accepted, Hannah, accepted. She’ll be here in a fortnight!” He flapped the letter at her. “Do you realize the work this castle needs done to it just to make it livable? Not to mention to make it suitable for a royal visit!”
She nodded.
“I’ll have to hire every able-bodied man for miles around just to finish the projects I’ve already started.” His voice rose. “To put up the wood panels, to finish the painting in the corridor and the great hall, to make bookcases in the library. To finish the new foyer and construct stairs so Queen Victoria doesn’t have to come in through the kitchen.”
“That wouldn’t be impressive,” she mumbled.
“The royal party will stay the night. The Queen. Theroyal consort. The royal children. They’ll need bedchambers, sitting rooms, a nursery that’s not covered in dust and cursed with rotting floorboards!”
“Oh.”
“Oh.” He mimicked her savagely. “Shall we talk about how many servants will be traveling with them? And where we’ll put them up?”
“No.”
“How shall we transport them all from the railway station to the castle when we have a limited number of vehicles, none of them less than fifty years old?”
“Alfred’s cart?” She used her smallest voice, and retreated when her joke caused his glower to become a snarl.
“What were you thinking?” He paced across her tiny bedchamber. “What were you thinking?”
“That Her Majesty wouldn’t come?”
His nostrils flared like a stallion’s scenting a challenge. “Hannah, this sewing project better be bloody wonderful.”
She was aghast. “You haven’t even seen it?”
“No! Why should I care how four old women use their time?”
“You’re truly the biggest toad in the puddle, Dougald! I thought you knew, and I suspected you were using the aunts’ tapestry to get Her Majesty here for your own glory.”
“Using the aunts for my glory? That’s silly!”
She experienced no end of satisfaction when she retorted, “Perhaps, but I couldn’t ask you because you wouldn’t ever allow me to speak to you in private.”
He stopped pacing. He glared. “Tell me I’m worried for nothing. Tell me the tapestry is grand.”
She thought of the tapestry. The beautiful, big, richly colored tapestry on which the four old ladies had worked for twenty-four years. She took a breath, then let it out in a long, quavering sigh. “It…was.”
In a strictly composed voice, he asked, “What do you mean, it was?”
“It’s a…um…tapestry. Very splendid. Very large. Very worthy.”
“But?”
“But the aunts didn’t quite have Prince Albert’s features right, so I suggested they take that panel apart—” His low growl brought her stumbling to a halt. “I’ll help them finish it?”
“You have a fortnight.” He backed her into the corner between the wardrobe and the wall and leaned so close his hot breath touched her cheek. “A fortnight before Her Gracious Majesty, Victoria, Queen of England visits our little castle. Make sure this tapestry gets done.”
She wanted to tell him it was impossible, but his eyes were slits of fury and…well, probably just fury. He used his closeness to intimidate her, and he was making a fine task of it. Certainly it was his threatening posture that made her heart pound, her knees weaken and her insides contract. She should not choose this moment to notice the scent of him—leather, soap and Dougald. And she had backed away from him because she feared he would put his hands on her in violence, not because if he touched her, she’d quiver and sigh and want more than she should want from such a cold-hearted beast.
“The tapestry,” he said.
“It will get done,” she promised.
Turning on his heel, he stalked out and slammed the door.
Hannah slumped into the corner and covered her eyes with her hands. What had she gotten herself into? A fortnight to reweave and sew a tapestry that had taken twenty-four years to complete—and do it better than before? It seemed an impossibility.
And sadly, the tapestry was the least of her problems. By some mad quirk of nature, she now discovered that no matter how thoroughly Dougald ignored her, no matter how aggrieved she was with him, when he came close she still trembled and yearned.
Obviously, her presence did not affect him in such a manner, or—
The door slammed open and Dougald stomped back in. “And where have you been?”
Perplexed, she repeated, “Where have I been? When?”
“Today. Tonight. Why weren’t you in the castle?”
The events of the day rushed back at her. Her grandparents. She, wanting to speak to them but not having the nerve. She, staring with her nose pressed against the fence like some homeless waif. No power on earth could have made her tell him where she’d been or what she’d done. He would think himself a great success. He would laugh.
“It was my half day off, and therefore none of your business.” She was proud of her inscrutable answer until she saw the flare of his red wrath.
He looked her up and down. “You’re dressed up. I haven’t seen you so dressed up. Not since you’ve been here.” His fists clenched. “If you were out with that little pudknocker Seaton—”
“It would still be none of your business.” Was he jealous? How lovely.
He leaned back over her, only this time he wasn’t angry about the Queen. This time, his fury was personal. “It bloody well is my business where you go and what you do.”
She jutted out her chin. “Why?”
“You’re my wife.”
Indignation came boiling up from her frustrated self. “When? Nine years ago? Not today, that’s f
or sure. Not now. Not when you won’t even speak to me to instruct me as to your orders.”
He stepped back and surveyed her, scrunched in her corner. She stepped forward and glared at him, the egotistical pompous cad who thought to control her money and her fate.
And he swept her into his arms.
And she grabbed his hair and brought his lips down to hers.
They kissed in a whirlwind of passion, frustration and anger, their bodies pressed together, her feet dangling, his tongue in her mouth. Damn him! To treat her so insolently again, still, as if she were a girl of eighteen and he the superior older man. But he wasn’t superior now; he wanted her, for his arms crushed her to him, his hands searched through the layers of her skirts and petticoats to find her thighs and lift them around him. And she…she wrapped her legs around his waist, pressed her bodice against his waistcoat, kissed him with her lips open and her tongue thrusting against his, and wished the clothes that separated them would vanish in some magical puff of smoke.
He tore his mouth from hers. “You dreadful tease.” Swinging her around, he headed toward her narrow bed.
“Not me.” She could scarcely think to answer him, but some instinct made her reach up to bite his lower lip. “I don’t tease. This isn’t teasing.”
“No.” He tumbled her onto her back on the mattress, his body between her legs, his chest pressed to hers. “Not now. But since you’ve been here. Every day.” He stared into her eyes. “Prancing around the castle. Up the stairs. Down the corridors.”
“I did not prance, sir.” She ran her fingers through his hair and decided he should never cut it. “I am not a horse!”
“Talking so that, while I work in my office, I strained to hear you speak to Charles.”
“Is it your command that I not speak?”
“Laughing with that knave Seaton.”
“You come from a family of knaves, and you are the worst of the lot.”
“Dressing provocatively.”
“Provocatively!” She squinted down at the chestnut gown.