Chapter 1

Chapter 1

London, England

July, 1869

The ferns near the window wiggled their fronds as if they wanted to escape the room.

Virginia Anderson Traylor, Countess of Barrett, wiggled on the chair and wanted to do the same.

She sat in the corner of the parlor, swathed in black. Her hands were folded on her lap, her knees pressed together, her head at the perfect angle.

How many times had she thought about this scene? In the last year, at least a dozen or more, but in her imagination she'd always been surrounded by weeping women rather than sitting a solitary vigil.

She stood, unable to remain still any longer. She'd been a good and proper widow for nine hours now. For the last four, she'd watched over her husband's coffin alone.

Her thoughts, however, had not been on her husband.

A dog howled, no doubt the same dog that howled for three nights straight. Ellice, her sister-in-law, thought he'd announced Poor Lawrence's death.

The parlor where she sat stretched the length of the town house. Two fireplaces warmed it in winter, but now it was pleasantly temperate. The room had been refurbished with the infusion of money she'd brought to the marriage. The wallpaper was a deep crimson, topped by an ivory frieze of leaves and ferns. Four overstuffed chairs, upholstered in a similar crimson pattern as the wallpaper, squatted next to a tufted settee. A half-dozen marble-topped tables, each adorned with a tapestry runner, filled the rest of the available space, their sharp corners patiently waiting to snare a passing skirt.

No doubt Enid meant for the room to be the perfect showplace in the Earl of Barrett's home. What her mother-in-law had accomplished, however, was a parlor reeking with excess. Even the potpourri was overpowering, smelling so strongly of cloves that her nose itched and her eyes watered.

The coffin was crafted of polished mahogany, wider at the shoulders and narrow at the feet, with three brass handles on each side. A round brass plaque over where Poor Lawrence's heart would be was engraved OUR BELOVED.

Not her beloved, and he hadn't shown much love toward his family. The hyperbole, however, was expected of them. So, too, all the mourning rituals that would be carried out in the next year.

Perhaps Lawrence had arranged for his own coffin and the plaque was a last thumb in the eye to his wife, mother, and sisters.

For her sitting, she'd insisted the top of the coffin be lowered. The other members of the family would probably want to view Poor Lawrence once more.

"A bad heart," Enid had called it. A bad disposition as well, although perhaps she shouldn't fault him for being angry at the circumstances he'd been dealt. A semi-invalid since birth, he'd been limited in what he could do, to the point of being imprisoned in this house.

Poor Lawrence was what she called him in her thoughts. To his face, she'd been a proper wife. "Dearest husband," she'd said on those occasions when he allowed her to visit him.

"Dearest husband, how are you feeling?"

"Dearest husband, you're looking better."

"Dearest husband, is there anything I can bring you?"

He never answered, only slitting his eyes at her like she was an insect he'd discovered in his food.

Lawrence was, whether it was right to say such a thing about the deceased, a thoroughly unlikable person. Yet John Donne, the poet, stated that every man's death was a loss to be experienced by all mankind.

With age, Lawrence might have changed. He might have become a better person. He might have even been generous and caring.

How foolish it was to ascribe virtues to the dead they never owned in life. Lawrence wasn't a hero and he wasn't kind. Look at how he'd thrust them all into poverty.

She could easily understand his antipathy toward her. After all, didn't she feel the same for him? Why, though, would he treat his sisters and mother with contempt? Why punish them when it was obvious they hadn't done anything but treat him with kindness and care?

Every day, Eudora and Ellice called on their brother. Even if Lawrence wouldn't see them, they still returned, time after time. Eudora selected books she thought he'd like to read from their library. Ellice relayed stories to him of their days and the world outside the house.

Enid was as fond as any mother could be, worrying about Lawrence's health, querying his attendant about his cough, his color, his weakness. Despite his wishes, she insisted the doctor make regular visits, and listened when his examination was done.

What had Lawrence done to repay them? Guaranteed they would forever be dependent on others.

He could, just as easily, have given some of her father's money to his mother—or to her—to ensure their future was secure. Or he could have spent it on personal property not subject to his will.

But he hadn't done anything kind or caring.

At least, now, she would never again have to pretend to be a loving wife. These sleepless hours were little enough sacrifice for such blessed freedom.

Custom dictated the curtains be drawn, but she'd opened them at midnight, unable to bear the closed-in feeling of the room. The mirror was swathed in crepe. Candles sat burning on the mantel beside a clock stopped at the time of Poor Lawrence's death.

The room celebrated death, but she'd never been afraid of death. She was not overly fond of the dark, heights, or the ocean, however, and she detested spiders.

"The world is not going to swallow you whole, Virginia," her father had said more than once. "There's no reason to be a timid little mouse."

She circled the bier, her fingers trailing over the polished top of the coffin, closer to Poor Lawrence in death than she'd ever been in life except one time, the night their marriage had been consummated, six months after their wedding. On that occasion, he'd kissed her, so passionately it jolted her. The coupling, however, had been a painful experience, one she'd not wished to repeat. To her relief, he felt the same and they never touched again.

Enid, Dowager Countess of Barrett, pulled open the sliding doors of the parlor, then closed them just as quickly.

Her mother-in-law was stocky and short, her shoulders as wide as her hips. When Enid headed toward her, it was like facing a solid wall of determination. Enid's brown eyes could be as warm as chocolate sauce. Now they were as cold as frozen earth.

"Have you decided?"

Even though it was just before dawn, her mother-in-law was dressed in a black silk dress with jet buttons. Her hair was pulled back from her round face and contained in a black net snood. Although she wore a full hoop, she expertly navigated the room filled with furniture, moving to occupy a chair close to the bier.

"What you propose is so ..." The words trailed away.

"Practical? Logical?" Enid asked.

Virginia walked to the window, trying to find some way to respond.

"Do not think Jeremy will support us, my dear. He will banish us from this house with a quickness that will surprise you. What he doesn't do, his harridan of a wife will. They'll care nothing for what happens to us."

"Would you?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder at her mother-in-law. "If the situation were reversed, would you care for Jeremy and his wife?"

"And their brood of children?" Enid sighed deeply. "I don't know. They're badly behaved children."

Virginia bit back a smile. Yes, they were, and she dreaded any occasion when she had to encounter Jeremy's seven children.

If Lawrence had left behind one child, they wouldn't be having this conversation.

Her mother-in-law was a planner, witness her brilliance in arranging a marriage between Lawrence, an invalid, and an American heiress. One thing Enid hadn't been able to do, however, was inspire Lawrence to bed his wife on more than one occasion.

She rarely called Enid "Mother," falling back on a habit of not addressing her at all unless it was in the company of others. Her own mother had died at her birth, a fact she'd been reminded of endlessly as a child. Not by her father, who seemed surprised when she was trotted out for his inspection at Christmas and during his one summer visit. A succession of nurses and governesses, all hired to tend her and keep her out of her father's way, ensured she knew her entrance into the world had been accompanied by the greatest tragedy.

She couldn't even imagine her mother's disembodied voice on this occasion. Would she have sided toward logic and survival? Or would her mother have been horrified at Enid's suggestion?

"Something must be done," Enid said. "You know as well as I."

The title was going to pass to Lawrence's cousin, Jeremy. He was a perfectly agreeable sort of person, pleasant to Virginia when they met. She didn't see anything wrong with him assuming the title. The problem was, everything Lawrence had purchased since receiving the bulk of her estate: the numerous houses, parcels of land, dozens of horses, farm equipment, and furnishings. Lawrence had ensured they would also go to his cousin by willing them to the "male heir of his body." Without an heir, the property traveled back up the family tree to Jeremy.

Without any cash or assets they could sell, they'd be penniless.

All she had was her quarterly allowance, and it wouldn't buy more than a few bottles of perfume. She had her mother's jewels, but they were more sentimental than valuable since her mother evidently had not been ostentatious in her dress. One good ruby brooch and a carnelian ring could be sold. How much would those bring her? Not enough to care for all the people who needed to be supported.

They were in dire straits, indeed.

Unless she produced an heir to the estate.

What Enid was proposing was shocking. Somehow, she needed to get with child and quickly enough that he would be viewed as Lawrence's heir.

"It's a solution to our dilemma," Enid said. "Have you given any thought to it?"

She nodded. She'd thought about nothing but their situation in the last four hours. God help her, but here in this room with her husband's body in a casket, she'd thought about nothing but him.

Macrath.