Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

“ W here am I?” Gemma whispered to herself.

She’d woken up stiff but warm. Now, she looked around the simple but comfortable room.

The walls were pale grey-on-grey damask and a rich navy Aubusson rug graced the floor. Turning her face, she pressed her nose into the clean, crisp linen sheets of the heavy bed.

Moving, she felt bandages looping across her back where the nuns had flagellated her with whips. She felt clean, her hair felt washed and even the dirt under her fingernails was gone.

“Have they bathed me?” she wondered, sitting up.

The shabby shift she had worn under her cloak had been replaced with a luminous blue nightgown. Whoever had brought her here had taken loving care of her. She could not be more grateful or more scared.

“You are awake, I see,” a woman entered the bedroom, her diminutive figure dressed in a heavy brown velvet. A pair of bright blue eyes latched onto Gemma.

The lady’s face was powdered and spidery fingers clutched a cane, as her brows inched upwards toward her fringed, beige turban.

“How are you, my dear? My name is Vivian Wyndham. I am Frederick’s grandmother, and I have come to see how you are faring.”

Gemma’s throat constricted and she clutched the bed sheets tightly, incapable of uttering a word. The lady smiled sympathetically as she folded her skirts and sat down in an armchair beside the bed.

“You are mute then?” the lady said. “Matters to me not, my dear. What does matter is firstly making sure you are healed and then determining a way to return you to wherever you came from, and?—”

“No! Please!” The agonized cry came out without forethought. “Please, Your Grace. I implore you, do not send me back there. I…I cannot go back there. If you do, they will never, ever, let me see the light of day again. Please! Please. I will do anything!”

The lady was unflappable. “You need not do a thing, my child. Doctor Somerson has documented your injuries and from what I am told, they are quite grievous. Where did you come from, dear? Who hurt you so terribly?”

Gemma dropped her head, afraid that whatever she said—if she said it—would not be well received. An unspoken culture of compliance existed within the convent. The silence of the severely abused girls guaranteed that no one would know about the torture that took place within its walls. Therefore, nothing was ever done about it.

Maybe it is time to change that.

Gemma lifted her head and swallowed nervously. “St. Catherine’s Convent, my lady.”

“Pardon?” the lady leaned in. “You whispered that dear and my hearing is not as it used to be.”

She cleared her throat, “I said, St Cath—” The door pushed open, and a man entered, the same one from last night. “—erine’s Convent, ma’am.”

“ What ?”

The man’s thunderous expression caused Gemma to spring backwards and strike her back on the headboard in fear. He slowly moved towards her, his gait like a panther’s as it stalked a rabbit.

“ What did you say?”

“Frederick, for heaven’s sake, you are scaring the poor girl to death,” the lady chided him. “Give her a moment to breathe so you don’t send her to an early grave.”

Pressed against the cold board, she noted the taut ridges of muscle that strained against his tailored waistcoat and trousers. The morning light cast shadows over the sculpted angles of his face. He had rescued her last night, so surely he was a good man.

“I am sorry,” he said more calmly. “But did you say St. Catherine’s?”

“Yes,” she took in a breath, “Yes, my lord.”

“He is the Duke of Blackridge, my dear,” the lady said kindly. “You are in his house.”

Her mouth parted. “I am so sorry, Your Grace…” she made to get off the bed to curtsy, but he stopped her.

“You are injured. Stay where you are,” he said, his left hand held up. “How did you get here? We are many miles away from that horrid place.”

Looking at her lap, she said. “A cart with goods came into the convent and I took the chance to sneak inside. I…I cannot abide that place, Your Grace. It is—it is not… a place one could ever call a home.”

The Duke folded his arms and rested his back against the wall, his face set in stone, and the muscles of his neck corded with tension. The proximity of his tall, muscled form set loose a swarm of butterflies in her belly… of another kind. The thin line of the watch chain’s gold links contrasted with the indigo color of his waistcoat but matched the gold buttons going down to his buff trousers.

“Doctor Somerson made sure to give me a detailed report of your injuries,” he said. “You are hurt. Now that you have told me where you came from, the hounds of hell would have to drag me away before I let you return to that wretched hellhole. You may remain here longer, Miss…”

His pause was noted. “Gemma. My name is Gemma Bradford, Your Grace.”

“You are welcome to stay, Miss Bradford,” he said, combing his hair from his eyes, “As a matter of fact, you may have given me more than you realize.”

Her brows knitted in the middle. “What do you mean?”

Instead of looking at her, he looked to the lady, “Stay with her. I need to reopen that file and now, after all these years, I finally have good reason.” This time he did look at her, “Miss Bradford, the punishments you suffered. Are they commonplace at that convent?”

She nodded. “Yes, but they are primarily inflicted upon the girls who do not align themselves to the ideology they force down our throats. They brand us rebellious, and the nuns do not like anyone who questions their authority.”

“Frederick,” the Dowager said in a warning tone.

He looked at Vivian and his shoulders slumped an inch. Gemma marveled as she watched the two of them engage in a wordless conversation, at the end of which the Duke sighed.

“I am getting ahead of myself. This can wait.”

“I must admit,” his grandmother said, “it is refreshing not having someone bend over backward to curry favor with a lady whose grandson is one of the most powerful people in the land. If I asked, he would have ten thousand men storming Normandy for their Calvados.”

The Duke’s lips twitched, “You would not.”

“I would,” she said. “I would like some for dinner tonight, as a matter of fact. Please send for your men.”

Despite her present circumstances, Gemma giggled, humored by the light-hearted banter between the two.

“Luckily, we have some in the winery,” Frederick replied, before turning to Gemma. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet, Your Grace,” she told him.

“I will have something light sent up,” he said. “Grandmother?”

Vivian sighed and rose to stand. “Fine, fine, I will take my leave. Take care my dear and get some rest. You certainly deserve it.”

Frederick had to temper his step to stop him from running to his study and yanking out the old file that stated, to the letter, the injuries his sister Helen had suffered. He wanted—needed to—compare the two reports from both doctors and see where they overlapped.

If this was his chance to get those nuns and have that horrid priory shut down, he would take it.

He poured himself a glass of Tobermory whiskey, then opened both folios; the old one about his sister that he had memorized, and the new folio that detailed Doctor Somerson’s findings in respect of Gemma’s injuries. Frederick grimaced at the seamless similarities in their injuries.

The timing is right. I can feel it. She did not end up here by accident.

Frederick was not a man who believed in fate, but he could not deny that Gemma’s sudden appearance felt like it had been a deliberate nudge to advance his pursuit and obtain justice for Helen, and now Gemma. He would not let this go unpunished.

His grandmother pushed the door open gently and entered the room.

“I know that face,” she said as she closed the door behind her. He thought she had retired to her room after such a draining morning. “You have convinced yourself that she is your push to get that place reduced to rubble, but I ask you to wait a while before you send your missive off to the archbishop.”

“Why?” His brows met in the middle.

She settled into the chair across from him, set her cane to one side and folded her thin fingers on the table. “I do not want you to use Miss Bradford as if she were a tool to further your cause. I know you still harbor deep resentment towards those nuns at St Catherine’s. I am also aware that the pain of losing Helen remans a burden upon your heart, but this time, see Miss Bradford as a human instead of a vehicle for your fury.”

Dropping his pen, he rubbed his eyes. “I do not wish to lose this chance, Grandmother. For all I know, she might be the only person with the proof I need to get them investigated and shut down.”

“I know, my boy,” her eyes held sympathy. “But Miss Bradford is not the first, and she is unlikely to be the last. I want you to give it time, Frederick.”

His eyes dropped to the folios on his table and to the comparison he had written up; with Miss Bradford’s testimony he would finally be able to get somewhere with his long-standing mission.

Leaning forward, he dropped his elbows on the table, his eyes lodged on the papers. “How long do you suggest that I wait?”

“A month or two,” she replied. “Nothing will return Helen to us, Frederick, but healing this poor girl might assuage some of the hurt in your heart. I know most of the pain comes from the frustration you feel that you were not able to help Helen. This time, you do that with Gemma.”

“No, absolutely not. I am not waiting.”

“Are you that vengeful?”

“Have you forgotten what they did to Helen?”

“Frederick…

“NO!” he boomed, standing now. “Absolutely not. I have a witness, a victim, and I have the necessary power and influence. I will destroy them for destroying her!”

He was furious, his heart pounding loudly in his ears as he looked into his grandmother’s wide blue eyes. She was afraid for him. He could also see the hurt and pity that lingered in her unshed tears. Her stern look and folded arms were enough to make him pause and reconsider.

He slumped into his chair and let out a long breath through his nostrils. She was making a valid point. A large part of his pain came from his belief that he had not been able to stop his father from sending Helen there. If he had known, he would have stepped in—somehow.

“No, Frederick,” his grandmother seemed to sense his thoughts. “Neither you nor poor Peter would have stayed Darius’s hand. He would have sent her there in any event, because he was afraid of the shame that would land on his doorstep, not hers.”

He knew she was right again.

“What you can do is save this girl,” she reached for her cane. “The best revenge you can ever have is to save others from a similar fate.”

Sighing, he closed the two folios and set them aside. It stung his soul that justice for Helen was repeatedly pushed back.

Frederick left the room and strode outside, knowing that, at this time of the day, his dog Remus would be out near the kennels guarding the horses. He would be ready for a run and Frederick was ready to give him one.

He entered the stable yard; a large rectangle corded off by fences that stretched back with enough space to exercise the horses.

A few stable hands were bushing some horses that basked in the sunshine. They bowed to him and he nodded back before walking into the stable and locating his gelding; a massive, thoroughbred grey horse from mane to tail.

“Mason,” he rubbed the horse’s velvety nose. “Are you ready for a run?”

As he mounted, completely at home in the saddle, he promised himself to find out everything he could about St. Catherine’s.

He would once again speak with Miss Bradford and hopefully keep his temper in check during the process.