Chapter Seven

A lady should never give in to hysterics. She should remain calm and demure at all times.

The snap and crackle from the fire in the large fireplace in the common room worked to put Lydia at ease. Even though this was the place she’d spent the first three years of her marriage and memories—both good and bad—haunted her at every turn, being here with a different set of people seemed beneficial for outlook.

In the gathering shadows of dusk, Jackson had gone outside to see if he couldn’t do a few minor repairs to the cottage before the storm really got underway while the drivers were making sure the horses would be protected enough in the barn. That left her alone with Elsbeth.

They were upstairs together, dressing mattress ticks with fresh sheets that had been stored in a cupboard. When she’d left her husband and his abuse, she had no idea what he would do to keep the house and neither did she care. Obviously, he must have had a housekeeper or perhaps he’d abandoned the house altogether. There was no way to tell, but everything in the cottage had been put away just so and everything had a place.

“Is all well with you?” she asked the girl as she fluffed one of the pillows. At least mice hadn’t gotten into the bedding. “You seem a bit maudlin this evening.”

“Oh.” Sadness shadowed the girl’s eyes. “I was just remembering my mother. She used to oversee the maids sometimes when they dressed the beds.”

“Sometimes memories sneak up on us, catch us by surprise, and bring with them far too many emotions.”

“Yes.” Elsbeth nodded. “I miss her so much.”

“That’s understandable. A mother is an essential part of anyone’s life.”

She lost her mother shortly after her marriage, around the same time that her husband had begun to show his true colors. Of course, when she’d mentioned to her mother what that man was doing, she had said it was just a woman’s cross to bear.

After that, she’d stopped talking to her mother about her husband’s temper and abuse, but in her heart of hearts, she knew that advice had been wrong. No woman should settle for such treatment merely because she was married to a monster.

Or any man.

None of that let her escape her guilt after her mother died.

“Mama and I sometimes used to have late night talks,” the girl said as she drew a hand over a pillow slip. “We would talk about everything. Even if I thought it was silly at the time.” Then she glanced out the window where the snow continued to come down quickly in fat flakes. “But the coziest of those chats were at Christmastide. We would plan out what we would do for Boxing Day and where we would distribute our items for charity. Once, she let me wear my prettiest dress and peek out from the back parlor at all the ladies and gentlemen who came to a Christmas ball that year when we were in the country.”

“Your mother sounds as if she was a very special person.” When she was Elsbeth’s age, she had no idea that three years later she’d be so enamored with a liar that she would plead with her father to let her marry him.

“She was.” Elsbeth sat on the edge of the bed, still peering out the window. “Mama always loved the snow.”

“Why?” It usually causes chaos and problems.

The girl shrugged. “She used to say that the blanket of fresh white covered all the ugliness, especially in Town. It was the only time of year where London looked new and pristine, that the snow gave everything a new start.” A grin curved her lips. “Sometimes she would make me go out to the back garden near the square and we would run about in the snow as if we were children. Once she showed me how to catch snowflakes on my tongue. And three years ago, we went to the Frost Fair on the Thames. That was so much fun though freezing cold.”

Lydia smiled. “I remember that year. Dear heavens, it was so cold.” She’d been in London, hoping and praying that her finishing school would prove popular, which it did the following autumn term. Though she’d been alone and terrified her husband would find her, she hadn’t the courage to venture to the fair herself, but she gladly listened to the stories from her students.

“Do you think my mother knew I loved her? I couldn’t say goodbye to her when she died. I was…” Her voice broke. “I was away in Surrey with one of my friends, spending Christmastide there because Papa said Mama might enjoy some quiet time.”

Ah, that would account for her penchant for needling her father and why she retreated into silence or sleep so often.

“Here is what I know for certain.” Daring much, Lydia sat next to the girl. “There is no doubt in my mind that your mother knew how much you loved her. I also firmly believe you will see your mother again in the life beyond this one.” At least that was the hope. “Please don’t blame your father for what he thought was the right decision at the time. No one could have known your mother’s pregnancy would go so horribly wrong, and he’s battling the same grief, besides.”

“You are wise. I like that.” With hesitant movements, Elsbeth reached for her hand and then quickly grasped it. “I’m glad you are here. It makes me feel less alone.”

“I feel that as well.” Warmth went through her chest. “If it continues to snow, we’ll be stuck here, and if that’s so, would you like to do a few things to usher in the holiday with me?” Never had she thought she would need to live beneath this roof again, but oddly enough, the thought of spending time in the cottage with Elsbeth and her father didn’t seem so grim.

“You would let me?” Interest lit the girl’s blue eyes that were not quite as dark sapphire as the earl’s.

“Of course. We’re together. It’s the time of miracles and of friendship and understanding. We should make the best of it.” She stood to resume dressing the bed. “I wasn’t looking forward to Christmastide this year for various reasons, but now it won’t be so bad.”

“Thank you, Lydia.” The girl squeezed her fingers before releasing her. Then, with a sly grin, she said, “I think Papa is enjoying your company as well.”

“Oh?” Heat went into her cheeks. “Human connection is a powerful thing. Perhaps it is good we were thrown together. I rather think you and your father would have been at each other’s throats by now if I hadn’t needed rescued.”

“You might be correct. I detest travelling.”

Then they both shared a laugh. Suddenly, the next few days brought her a sense of excitement and anticipation.

How very odd.

The sound of glass breaking woke Lydia from her fitful slumber. Immediately, her heartbeat accelerated and the hair on her nape prickled with alarm.

By the time she’d donned the thin robe and drew it over her nightdress, movement reached her ears from the narrow corridor beyond the door to the room she’d chosen. As soon as she swung the door quietly open, she was confronted by both the earl and his daughter.

Jackson put a finger to his lips. In a pair of dark breeches and a loose shirt that hadn’t been tucked, he was the epitome of rugged manliness, especially with the shadow of dark stubble clinging to his cheeks and chin. “I’m going downstairs to see what happened. For all we know, it could be the wind,” he said in a barely audible whisper.

Lydia nodded. “Definitely a storm,” she said in a matching whisper, but she clutched at Elsbeth’s hands.

“You two stay safe. I mean it.” Then he left them, descended the narrow wooden staircase as quietly as he could.

Despite her racing heartbeat and the fears gaining strength and shape at the back of her mind, Lydia softly reassured his daughter as they crept silently toward the stairs. When Jackson shouted and the sounds of a struggle drifted to her ears, she detached her hand from Elsbeth’s. “Your father is in trouble.”

“You intend to go down there? Surely, he can take care of whoever has broken in.” Fear flashed in the girl’s eyes in the dim light.

“I refuse to leave him alone.” Not even to fight my battles.

The crash of a dish to the floor spurred Lydia into action. Soon enough, she gained the lower level where she was in time to see the earl catch an unknown assailant in a headlock and urge him toward the front door, pausing every now and again to grapple with the other man as he fought.

They exchanged a few words, and through the gloom, she squinted to have a look at the intruder just as Jackson tossed him out of the house. Her heart dropped, for by the size and shape of him, the pronounced Scottish burr in his voice, and the jagged white scar on the left side of his face when Elsbeth lit a candle, she had every confidence it was her husband’s brother, the one who’d contested the marriage, the man who quite loudly and strenuously said he should have inherited the cottage and land when their father died.

With a huff of annoyance from the earl when he spied her and his daughter, he growled out, “Going to make certain he’s gone.” Seconds later, he barreled outside into the storm despite not having his boots or any other protective wear.

“Dear heavens,” Lydia whispered to the girl as she quickly went to close the door and keep some of the warmth inside the cottage. “I’d best put the kettle on. He’ll be frozen to bone when he comes back.”

“Right.” Elsbeth cleared her throat. “I’ll put another piece of wood on the fire. He can sit there and thaw.” From her bearing and the fact there was no more petulance in her tone, it was clear the young lady had matured in that moment.

“That is quite helpful.” As she went into what served as a dining room with a small stove, her chest felt far too tight.

It was essential that she keep her secret, but everywhere she looked, there are memories of her marriage and how horrid it turned six months into it. While Elsbeth took care of the fire, Lydia busied herself with filling the kettle with water, lighting the stove, and putting the kettle on. When she reached for a mug from a cupboard, she caught sight of one that still had the crack in the handle from where her husband had slammed it on the stout oak table because she’d dared to ask him of his plans for an evening.

That question had guaranteed her a fist to the cheek before he’d stormed out.

As her breath became labored, she went to the doorway to watch as Elsbeth replaced the plain metal grate in front of the cheerful flames. With a toe, she nudged aside a corner of a rug in the common room. There, on the hardwood, was a stain. Quite faint but there, of blood from where he’d punched her, beat her down, and had knocked loose a back tooth that had bled copiously onto the floor while she’d flitted in and out of consciousness.

Stifling a cry, she felt the void in her mouth with her tongue where she’d had to have the remainder of the tooth pulled out the day after the beating. The man who’d done it—oddly enough the owner of a stable in the village who also had human patients—had been kind and understanding. He’d not asked questions and hadn’t remarked on her tears. Instead, he’d given her laudanum for the pain, or to help with the blessed escape into sleep, and had then sent her across the street to the small cottage where he lived with his mother.

That older woman had sat with her until she was clear-headed enough to drive the gig home, had given her tea and cold water, and had also told her of a village woman who could give her enough poison to kill her oaf of a husband should she wish to be permanently rid of him.

God, how Lydia had thought about doing just that. Instead, knowing she could never kill someone, she had fled after six months of abuse.

“Lydia? Are you all right?” The concern in Elsbeth’s voice wrenched her from her thoughts.

“Yes, why?”

“You suddenly went white as a sheet and your fist is clenched.”

“Oh.” Telling herself to relax, she nodded. “I’m fine. Thank you.” Then she went into the dining room to fix a tray of tea.

Just as she brought the tray into the common room and set it on a low table, the door opened, and the earl staggered in. Snow lay upon his head and shoulders. His feet, hands, and nose were bright red with cold. In the dim illumination of the couple of candles Elsbeth had lit, a bruise was already forming on the right side of his face. The knuckles of his right hand were a bit bloodied as well.

“Papa!” The girl was across the room, closing the door behind him before ushering him over to a chair near the fire. “Sit and get warm. Lydia has made tea.”

“Good.” A shiver racked his body as his daughter gently pushed him into the chair. Lydia plucked a crocheted blanket up and put it around his shoulders. “Thank you.” When she gave him a mug of tea, their fingers brushed. Awareness tingled up to her elbow. “As best as I could see, the man ran away. I couldn’t find him near the cottage or barn, and I told the drivers to be wary. They have pistols.”

“Do you hurt, Papa?” Elsbeth bussed his unmarred cheek.

“I’ve had worse.” He grinned at his daughter.

“Elsbeth, fetch a basin of water. I’ll tear some strips from old sheets to bandage his hand and perhaps his forehead. More to clean the wounds.”

He caught her hand, held it briefly. “Don’t go to any trouble.”

“It is no trouble.” She glanced at Elsbeth and nodded. “Basin of water, please.”

“Of course.” The girl scuttled into the other room.

Lydia lingered. “There might be laudanum somewhere around if you should need it.”

“I do not.” Then he released her hand. “Thank you for the kindness.”

Flutters erupted in her belly. “It’s the least I can do.” After she joined Elsbeth, and as the young lady filled a small porcelain basin, she moved to the stairs, lightly ran up them, and rummaged in a cupboard for one of the more worn sheets that featured a ragged hem and a hole in one corner. Once she’d torn the fabric into several strips, she brought them down to the common room where Elsbeth was once more sitting next to her father in the matching chair.

Lydia situated herself on a hard ottoman at the earl’s feet. “If you are finished with your tea, I’ll clean your wounds.”

“Do I have a choice?” He bounced his gaze between them.

“No, Papa. Let Lydia do this.” She frowned. “I was so worried; I’m still worried.”

“Easy, poppet. It’s nothing that some bandages and whisky can’t cure. Why don’t you go back to bed? There’s nothing more you can do tonight.”

Elsbeth glanced at Lydia with questions in her eyes. “What do you think, Lydia?”

She dipped a strip of linen into the water then wrung it out. “I’m going to clean and patch him up. No doubt he’ll retire afterward.” With a shrug, she took his battered hand into hers. “There’s nothing exciting about that.”

The girl frowned as she stared at her father. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“I am.”

“Are we safe?”

“You are. I would never let anything happen to you or Lydia.” He bounced his gaze to her. “I really need to nail a board over the broken window. We’ll freeze if I don’t.”

“Why don’t you go do that before I clean your wounds. Otherwise, I’ll have to do it twice.”

“Right.” With a groan, he gained his feet, bent over his daughter, and kissed the top of her head. “Go to bed, love. I promise you, these are tiny injuries.” Then he patted her head and moved into what had once been used as a stillroom, which was how the intruder had gained access to the cottage.

A sigh escaped Lydia. “Men are stubborn, my dear. What can I say? They always want to show us their strength so we won’t fall into hysterics.”

“Well, it’s a bother.” She stood and when she drew close the Lydia, Elsbeth rested a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for caring for him. Sleep well.”

She nodded. “You, too. Tomorrow we shall make bread together.”

The ghost of a smile graced the girl’s lips. “I look forward to it.”

Twenty minutes later, the earl returned to his chair. Once he poured out a second cup of tea, Lydia resumed her task of cleaning his reddened knuckles.

“How did you really come by this cottage?” he asked in a soft voice in between sips of tea. That intense gaze rested on her, sought hers out, and something deep inside her knew he wouldn’t take another round of lying lightly.

Apprehension twisted down her spine. “I…” It would seem time had run out, and perhaps she did need to tell him at least part of the truth. “When I told you I wasn’t an innocent, that was the truth.”

“So I surmised.” He nodded but his expression didn’t change. No, he wouldn’t give quarter. “And?”

She heaved a sigh as she dipped the strip of linen back into the water. “I was married. At the young age of nineteen,” she said in a soft whisper. After she wrung out the fabric, she folded it, leaned forward, and began to dab at the broken and bloodied skin at the top of his left cheek. “My husband was a Scotsman, quick to anger, surly at times, but very easy on the eyes. I was a desperate young girl with no experience of the world, and he completely charmed me.”

“It makes sense you met a young, strapping Scot since this property was in your family.” He took a sip of tea. “Your father didn’t approve of the match.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not at first.” She avoided his gaze while she cleaned the skin. “Truly, he probably didn’t approve of it later either, but I thought Duncan was who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with; I’d convinced myself I was in love with him.”

“I’ll wager things didn’t go well?”

“They did… at first. But I suppose he was still hiding his true nature.” She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. “Six months into the union, that was when the trouble began.”

When one of his eyebrows rose in question, she tamped on the urge to cry. “Such as?”

“At first, it was a smack here or there. Then, when he gained more confidence in his domination, he moved onto punching and shoving. There was never a time when I wasn’t bruised or hurting. But he always apologized, always convinced me that it had been an accident, a result of too much whisky when he’d been drunk, that he wouldn’t do it again.”

“It was lies.”

“Everything was, I think.” When she dropped the strip of linen back into the basin of water on the floor, she focused her gaze on the open placket of his shirt, on the black hairs poking through the vee. “Verbal abuse followed. I endured it all for a year after that, for at that time, I discovered I was increasing. Which was amazing, for he didn’t bed me that often; said I was a cold fish, and he had better by the wench at the local tavern.”

The earl’s lower jaw dropped. “Good God, please don’t go further.”

“I must. You wished to know, and I want you to realize why I did what I did.” As she clenched her fingers together in her lap to keep them from shaking, she raised her gaze to his. Compassion and horror fought for dominance in those cool pools. “Duncan wasn’t at all pleased. A baby would mean the attention would transfer from him to the infant.”

“Lydia…”

“No.” She shook her head, held up a hand. “I must,” she said in a choked whisper. “He was enraged when I told him. Knocked me about quite violently that night, ending it with a few punches to my belly.” Her voice caught on a sob, for grief never came at a convenient time. “Of course I miscarried the following morning. All he did was step over my body lying on the floor from where I’d collapsed on his way out to go lay bricks.”

“Bloody hell.” For the space of a few heartbeats, he stared.

“I lost my mother shortly before that, and she’d been indifferent about the abuse, so when I lost my baby too, I’m afraid I fell into a dark place.”

“Quite understandable.” His mouth worked, but no sound came out. Finally, he nodded. “What happened then?”

“To heal, I was told by a midwife to stay in bed as much as I could for two months. So I did, but Duncan was livid about having, what he called a ‘layabout’ for a wife. There was a day when he yanked me out, punched me so hard I lost a tooth, and said no wife of his would continue to be an embarrassment. I didn’t see him for three nights after that.” This time, tears welled in her eyes, for her history was just so… banal and pathetic.

And she hadn’t even told him all of it.

“It’s not often I’m rendered speechless, but you’ve managed it.”

“Some stories don’t have happy endings.” She shrugged. “It took me a handful of months after that to gather my courage, to save enough coin to be able to escape, but I knew I wanted a better life for myself, knew what he did wasn’t acceptable even if most people turned their heads so they couldn’t see.”

“You couldn’t write to your father, ask him to help get you out? Surely an earl would have some clout in such matters.”

Ah, the lies she’d told would now be the rope she hung from. “It wasn’t an option.” That would need to suffice. Brushing at the tears, she folded the remaining strips of linen. “One night in the winter near Christmas, I simply… left. I had a friend in the village, she worked in the bakery, who gave me some coin, enough to hire a spot on the post coach, so I took whatever belongings I could fit into a valise and fled to London.”

“It is why you don’t enjoy the Christmastide holidays.” It wasn’t a question.

“I never said that.”

His eyes were kind. “You didn’t have to.” For long moments, he was silent. “I imagine your father was glad of that and welcomed you with open arms.”

Dear lord, I can’t continue to lie to this man. She ignored the mention of her fictious “earl” father. “It took me a year to sort myself before I finally had the idea to open a finishing school.” Her real father had died of a heart attack within that year, and from all accounts, he’d been enraged when she’d walked out on her marriage, had deeply embarrassed him, and he’d made sure the village knew exactly what sort of woman she was. “To start my new life,” she added in a whisper.

“I can’t fathom all that you’ve survived and then have the will to open a school.” There was more than a little awe in his voice.

“We do what we must. I was deceived by Duncan, and when it became apparent my life was in danger, I had to do something, to disappear, to start over. Become someone else.”

Which she’d done, quite successfully, until that dratted letter from the solicitor arrived.

“Where is he?” Anger twisted into his expression. “Where is your bastard husband? I’ll kill him myself.”

Was he angry at her? Had he thought he’d done wicked things to a married woman and had been deceived? A queer pain shivered around her heart. That hadn’t been her intention. “Duncan is dead.”

“How long ago?”

“I’m not certain.” She shrugged, and the fabric of her night clothes scraped over her hardened nipples, whether from the cold or the conversation or his proximity, she couldn’t say. “Six months. Maybe more. I only just received a letter from a solicitor, which was the reason for the ill-fated trip. To find out if I wanted to keep the cottage or sell it.”

The earl’s nod was curt. “Did you kill him?”

“Ha.” Her bark of laughter was short and harsh and bitter. “No, but don’t think I didn’t want to do just that. He apparently died in a tavern fight. No doubt over the attentions of yet another barmaid. According to the letter from my friend in the village, his friends buried him in the village cemetery. Then promptly forgot about him.”

It served the bounder right.

For long moments, the crack and pop of the fire, as well as the whistle of the wind outside, were the only sounds in the room.

Then Jackson stirred. “Do you still love him?”

Shock thrust her from the maudlin thoughts. “Are you mad? Of course not. Any such feelings went by the wayside a year into our union. I have been running ever since.”

I’m so tired of hiding, of rebuilding.

“He’s dead, Lydia.” The earl took her hand in his. “You can stop running.”

“Perhaps. One never can be certain.” That connection, that feeling of her fingers gliding over his left her with the familiar longing burning inside her. “He has a brother who spoke out against our marriage, who wants control of the cottage and the bit of coin my husband left, though it wasn’t much, and it certainly wasn’t included with the letter from the solicitor.”

“I’d imagine the man took it to pay for his services.”

“He’s welcome to it. I want nothing else to do with my husband or his brother.”

“Ah. That was probably the intruder from the tonight.”

“I don’t doubt it.” A shiver racked her shoulders. “He’ll try again, Jackson, and that frightens me, for we’ll probably be stuck here a few days due to the storm.”

“He’s welcome to try. I’ll clean his clock next time.” Then, he stood and brought her up with him. “I don’t wish to talk of such unsavory things any longer.”

“Oh?” Again, her heartbeat kicked into a rapid rhythm, but it wasn’t due to fear. “What… uh, what do you want to do?”

“To show you that your husband was a proper nodcock to not see you for the gem you are.” While she stood rooted to the thin carpet, the earl extinguished the two lit candles in the room. The orange, copper glow of the fire lent a cozy, almost magical illumination to the space. Then he closed the distance between them, tugged her roughly into his arms. “No man has the right to lay hands on a woman in anger or anything else outside of love and respect. And if I need to tell you, to show you that in as many different ways as you need to hear it or learn it, I will, because he was so bloody wrong.”

Then he brought his mouth crashing down on hers in a kiss so intense it would surely be seared into her brain for the rest of her life. Seconds later, Lydia sighed, looped her arms about his shoulders, and melted into the embrace.

Why am I so weak around handsome men? Yet the earl was different in every conceivable way, and it sent her world upside down.