Chapter Twelve

 

Rain was supposed to be bad luck on a wedding day.

I thought about this as I paced in my room, clad in a white and gold dress that cost more than most people made in a single year. It had elbow-length sleeves and a high collar in back, a collar that plunged into a low neckline in front—daring for a morning wedding, but Mr. Markham had wanted the design and I frankly didn’t care. And a secret part of me had to admit it was delightful to wear such a beautiful dress. It sparkled and glinted and rustled, the thick drapes and folds of the skirt making me feel like a princess out of a long-ago tale.

Of course, no princess had an attendant quite as annoying as I’d managed to acquire. Mrs. Harold, the rector’s wife, had shown up this morning, fluttering her eyelashes and telling me how she just knew I wouldn’t have anyone to help me get ready and how that was such a crime.

And what could I do? I didn’t have anybody to help me dress, and as tiresome as I found her, I did need the help with the elaborate gown and with my hair.

“You look like a vision,” she told me, handing me a lacy gold shawl to drape from my elbows. “Mr. Markham will be so taken.”

“Mm.” It was hard to focus, hard to concentrate. Today was so permanent, so final, and it felt strange to make such a move when I still felt uncertain about so much. I watched Mrs. Harold’s cerulean dress swirl around her feet as she went back to the chair she’d been sitting on. She had very large feet for such a slender woman.

“He’s a difficult man to please,” Mrs. Harold said. “Aren’t you worried about what your marriage will be like?”

I was still staring at the hem of her dress, swaying and lifting as she sat, her long pointed shoes exposed. “No,” I said distractedly. “I’m not worried.” Something was fitting itself together in my mind, something she had told me weeks ago. And I was an idiot for not seeing it before.

“Mrs. Harold?” I asked. “Didn’t you tell me that you had heard about Mr. Markham laughing when he found Violet’s body?”

She blinked at the abruptness of the question, and I watched with interest as her eyes slid away from my face to the corner of the room. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, the servants saw it. But, my dear, isn’t it a little late to be worrying about all this? You’re due at the church in an hour.”

“But the servants didn’t see it.” I stepped closer to her, her position on the chair creating a height difference that obviously made her uncomfortable. I stared down at her, at her pretty if shrewish features. “You saw it, didn’t you? It was you at the edge of the field. Your footprints in the frost.”

She opened her mouth and then closed it. Mrs. Harold, at a loss for words. But I didn’t have time to marvel. “I saw the sketches of the footprints at the police station,” I told her. “The feet so large they suspected they belonged to a man. But they belonged to you, didn’t they? The question is, why were you there? And why did you lie?”

She stood suddenly, her face white and pinched. “You listen to me,” she hissed. “You are about to marry a dangerous man. You have no idea the things he’s done, the things he’s willing to do—he is beyond vicious. He is evil.”

She took a breath. “Yes, I was there,” she finally admitted. “I was leaving the house early, and I saw him walking out from the stables. At first, I thought he was looking for Violet—he was calling her name and running, but then I knew that he must have known what happened, because he ran straight for where Raven was standing. Straight for where Violet’s body was. And there was no way I would tell him I saw—I knew how violent he was. Who knows what he would have done to me?” Her voice was high-pitched and strange, and there was more than fear in it, there was experience, somehow.

I had to know. “Did he really laugh?”

“No.” Her eyes met mine. “He howled. Like a beast.”

“So you lied.” I don’t know why I was angry that the town gossip had lied—it was like being angry that a hawk had eaten a rabbit. But still, on Julian’s behalf, I felt furious.

Her chin tipped upward defiantly. “The essence of it is true—he didn’t care that Violet had died. He wanted to hurt her. You have no idea how much he wanted her to suffer. He loved it when she cried. When she begged. His howl could have been a howl of victory, not of grief.”

“You don’t know these things,” I said. “How could you?”

“Oh, I know.” And for some reason, she was crying now. “And you do too. Let me ask you, Miss Leavold, has he ever treated you in a way that society would consider unacceptable? Has he ever made you afraid? Has he ever shown desire at the sight of your fear?”

“I—” Yes. The answer was yes. But I couldn’t answer.

“Congratulations on your nuptials, Miss Leavold. You are marrying a monster, and what’s worse, you’re doing it knowing full well that you’ve been warned. Don’t expect me to come to your funeral too.”

I was the one who sat now, unable to speak, as Mrs. Harold left without saying a goodbye.

Thirty minutes later, and I was waiting for Gareth to pull the carriage around for me, so I could join my future husband at the church. My hands were shaking. Shaking hard.

Was I ready for this? Could I be ready for this? Mrs. Harold had shaken me deeply. Has he ever shown desire at the sight of your fear?

Yes.

But I had also felt desire in conjunction with my fear, so what did that make me? Was I a monster like he was? He was no gentleman, but I was no lady. Ladies didn’t crave the things I craved.

No. I had made my choice three weeks ago in the lane to Stokeleigh. I’d decided to stay, decided to trust that I was safe. Decided to trust that whatever happened the night Violet died, Mr. Markham at least hadn’t been the one to directly take her life. And that had to count for something, a small weight to bear against my ever-present doubts.

Besides, I thought as I turned and made my way downstairs, Mr. Markham had showed me nothing but passion, love, devotion, generosity, and domination. All things I needed. He’d taken me into his home, into his bed, protected me, and was even trying to make an honorable woman out of me by offering me his hand in marriage. There was nothing about him in our time together that indicated he would hurt me, at least in a way I didn’t want. He had even promised to tell me the truth—and let me leave if that truth became too much.

Yes. I am sure this is what I want.

I descended the stairs into the foyer, where the front doors were already open and waiting, revealing the thundering sky and the sheets of silver-gray rain. I thought I could hear the sounds of the carriage coming up from the stables, but it was impossible to tell over the low roar of the storm.

“Miss Leavold.”

I started, surprised to see the white-haired man from York. He’d been standing in the doorway to the parlor, concealed by the rainy morning shadows, but the fresh drops on his jacket indicated that he hadn’t been inside long.

“You,” I said. “You came here a few weeks ago.”

He inclined his head politely, agreeing. “It is interesting that you know that, Miss Leavold. I was under the impression that you were out visiting with friends at that time. I had insisted on coming here to visit you myself, and then conveniently you were not home.”

I paused. I couldn’t puzzle the right information out of his words.

He seemed to understand this. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small white card.

Jonathan Wright, Esq.

33 Portage Street, York

“I’m an old friend of Edward Wickes,” he said. “We studied law together, and we now frequently assist each other when the need arises. For example, when trying to hunt down a certain young woman known to live at Markham Hall.”

My confusion was not abated at all. “Why would Solicitor Wickes be looking for me? And why send you to come talk to me—why not simply write?”

“He did write, Miss Leavold. He’s been writing you for almost three months now. And you haven’t answered a single letter. The situation was important enough that he felt there must be a more dramatic intervention. So he called upon me.”

“He hasn’t written,” I said. “Or the letters got sent to the wrong address. Or—”

“Or,” he said softly, “somebody’s been taking them before you could read them.”

“But who—” No. It was ridiculous. None of the servants cared enough about me to steal my mail, and while Mrs. Brightmore hated me, I couldn’t picture her confiscating letters. Surely not.

Right?

“Whatever the case may be, I am here to deliver two messages. One is that Mr. Wickes is very anxious to see you, but his health makes it impossible for him to leave London at present. He is hoping that you will visit him as soon as you can arrange for a visit. He has even offered to pay for the trip himself, if you need him to.”

I shook my head, still feeling confused. “No, that won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’ll be traveling to London today actually. We leave this afternoon.”

Mr. Wright looked over my dress, the small white rosebuds in my hair. “After your wedding,” he said.

“Yes.”

He glanced at the floor a moment, and in that moment, I saw that he made a decision, swallowing back something with visible effort.

“The second message Mr. Wickes wants to convey is that you yet have a relative living. Your aunt, Esther Leavold. She is lately returned from India and was most horrified to learn of your circumstances. She wishes to be reunited with you at once, and she wants you to know that you are invited to come live with her.” He looked at my dress again. “Although it has only been since today that I understood Mr. Markham’s intentions for you. I am afraid your aunt and Mr. Wickes had no idea that your situation was changing so drastically.”

His words were not filtering in properly, not finding residence in anything I was prepared to understand. I felt the need to sit immediately, and he sensed this, taking my elbow and guiding me to a low ancient bench. I sat, my head feeling light.

“I have an aunt? Who wishes to take me in? I have family?” My voice broke on this last word, broke hard, and I felt tears pricking at the back of my eyelids. “I’ve never heard of her. And I didn’t think—I mean, I had rather given up on…”

I couldn’t finish. But I didn’t need to. Mr. Wright understood. I’d been orphaned. I had grieved and accepted that there would be no one out there bound to me by blood, no one who was born with an obligation to love me and care for me. And I had survived the grief. Adapted and grown and against all odds had found a new life for myself here in the North, in Mr. Markham’s arms. And now everything had changed in an instant.

“I should go,” Mr. Wright said. “I have been given the distinct impression that Mr. Markham does not want me to talk to you.”

I looked up, my eyes wet. “You have?”

Mr. Wright knelt in front of me, very easily for a man of his years, and gave me a grave but kind look. “It is not my place to advise you on anything of a personal nature, but I feel compelled to warn you that some perceive Mr. Markham to be a dangerous man.”

I was already shaking my head, but he held up a hand. “I know it is not what you want to hear. But have you given any thought to why Mr. Markham wouldn’t want us to communicate? Have you considered that he might have taken Mr. Wickes’ letters before you could read them?”

“No,” I whispered. “That’s not what has happened.”

“I hope not.” He stood. “Congratulations on your upcoming marriage, Miss Leavold. And please make your way to London as quickly as possible.”

And he vanished into the rain.

The encounter had lasted barely five minutes. Gareth still wasn’t present with the carriage, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I paced up and down the hallway, pausing at the door to the library.

Have you consider that he might have taken the letters?

No. They were lost. Sent to the wrong address or mixed up. And so what if Mr. Markham had told Mr. Wright I’d been away that night—I certainly had not been in a state to receive him anyway, not with the amount of laudanum I’d taken.

Not with the amount of laudanum he’d given me.

I was walking in circles before the library door now, the gold silk of my dress brushing against the medieval flags of the entry hall, my new boots clicking impatiently on the floor. As I paced, I kept seeing glimpses of the library floor, of the place where Mr. Markham had so irrevocably claimed me for his own. But perhaps he’d done that the day he’d proposed, or the day after, when he’d denied me. A day that started with me on my knees in his bedroom…

An idea formed, a half idea really, the shade of a premise with barely any logic, but it was fed by the undercurrent of doubt that now swelled in my mind. I didn’t stop to ponder or pull the idea apart, I simply acted, hurrying up the stairs and going into Mr. Markham’s room, empty of its owner but still smelling of grass and summer, of the particular soap he liked to use. I ignored all this, ignored my pounding pulse and the heat behind my eyelids and I dropped to my knees by his bed.

I gazed for a moment at the trunk underneath, incongruously gleaming in the dusty space under the bed. AW sparkled golden, even in the dim light. I reached for it, just barely able to snag the corner with a fingertip. It was heavy, and I had to flatten myself on the floor before I could properly shift it to a place where I could pull it out.

It was a smallish trunk, but solid, and the well-oiled hinges did not creak as I lifted the lid. I expected oft-creased and caressed love letters from decades ago, locks of hair and handkerchiefs and pressed flowers. I expected the things that a man would keep to remember a sweet wife who died too young.

There was nothing like that. In fact, the trunk was empty save for eight letters, all addressed to me, all sent from Solicitor Wickes. All opened.

I picked one of them up, hands shaking, and slowly unfolded the paper, reading the cordial missive informing me of my aunt Esther’s return to England. The next informing me that she was inviting me to stay with her. The next asking politely if I had received the first two. And on and on, each letter growing more worried than the last.

Mr. Markham had read them. Mr. Markham had hidden them.

Why?

“I was planning on showing you the letters,” a voice said from behind me. “After the wedding.”

I turned, my heart thudding, to see Julian leaning tiredly against the doorway, clad in a sharply pressed morning suit. His wedding suit. I dropped the letters guiltily, like a sinner caught sinning, even as anger flared at the sight of him.

“You’re not at the church,” I said in a hoarse voice.

“Gareth got me the moment he saw Mr. Wright’s horse tied up in front. I came right away. I didn’t want him to speak to you. For reasons that are now apparent.”

“They aren’t apparent,” I said, and I realized there was a tremulousness in my voice that edged on hysteria. “They aren’t apparent at all. Why are these letters under your bed? Why would you hide the fact that I have a relative? Why, when you knew how desperately I missed having a family?”

He was by me in an instant, on his knees, his face close to mine. “I am your family now,” he said heatedly. “Me. Only me.”

His hand was gripping my upper arm. Hard. “You and my family aren’t mutually exclusive,” I said. “I can have you both.”

“I don’t want to share you,” he said harshly. “With anyone.”

I wrenched away from him. “And why is that? Were you worried that I would leave you if I had another choice? Did you think that I was only marrying you—only fucking you—because I needed a place to live?”

Now he was the one to blanch. “No—”

“Because we’ve been over that,” I said over him. “You knew that wasn’t the case. You knew that I loved you for who you are—that I would love you even if I was an heiress with millions of pounds to my name. Why couldn’t you trust that I would love you no matter what happened?”

He ran a hand through his hair, a shaky violent motion that betrayed vulnerability and possessiveness and guilt. I stood and turned away so that I wouldn’t have to see it.

“Come back here,” he snapped. “You don’t get to walk away from me.”

He stood and grabbed at my arm. I spun around and slapped him. He staggered back.

“You lied to me, Julian! Why? Why?”

He didn’t touch his cheek, even as red splotches bled across his freshly-shaven skin. “Ivy,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t do this. Please.”

“You either answer my questions or I leave this room.”

We stared at each other for a long moment, and I knew he could see the resolve written across my features. He took a deep breath and finally spoke. “I didn’t want you to have the option to leave me. If you found out about the night Violet died, about the things I did. I didn’t want it to be easy for you to walk away from me.”

I was too strong to buckle or swoon, but I still backed against the dressing table, my fingers wrapping around its edges for support. His answer was so honest—too honest—and it was terrifying. He wanted me trapped here. He wanted to make it as hard as it could be for me to leave him, even after he’d promised me that I could leave at any time.

“You said,” and now the emotion broke through, shaking my voice and wetting my eyelashes. “You said that I could leave when you told me the truth. Or after you told me. You said I could leave whenever I wanted!”

He was breathing heavily. “I meant it, wildcat—”

“Don’t call me that!” I said, suddenly furious. “You don’t get to call me that now!”

Anger glittered in his eyes. “I can call you whatever I like. Because you’re mine, Ivy. You were mine the moment you let me circle your wrist with my hand the night we met. You were mine from the moment I pulled your first orgasm from your body on the floor of my library. You are mine and I have every right to protect what’s mine.”

“So I can’t leave.” My words were flat.

He shook his head, defensively, desperately. “That’s not what I’m saying. You can leave. You can utter bluebell at any time and I’m at your mercy. I only hid the letters for now because I wanted to show you…I wanted to show you how perfect I could make your life if you gave yourself completely to me and became my wife. Then I would tell you about Violet. Then I would tell you about your aunt. But first I needed you to be mine in the eyes of the law and of God. I needed to show you everything I could give you.”

It was always going to come to this, I realized. It was always going to come down to his secrets, his mysteries, his guilt. And I loved him with every atom and molecule that vibrated in my body, but I couldn’t live with those secrets any longer. I would always love him, always want to be with him, but treachery and betrayal was a line I couldn’t force myself to cross.

“Tell me what happened the night she died.”

He came to me and circled my upper arms with his hands. “No, Ivy, not yet. Listen to me—”

“Don’t touch me.”

His hands dropped and he stepped back. “Please,” he whispered. “Let me make it right.”

“If you want to make it right, then you’ll tell me,” I cried. “If you didn’t kill her, why can’t you just tell me?”

“Because I don’t want you to hate me,” he said. Sadness sliced through his words like broken glass.

“Don’t you see that I will anyway? If you try to trap me here? If you keep lying to me?”

“Once you know this, you can’t unknow it,” he said. “It…it’s the worst thing I’ve done. The worst thing in a lifetime of bad deeds. Please, Ivy. Please let it go.”

I took a step toward the door, unable to wrestle with him any longer. Our signal pressed against the inside of my lips, begging to be uttered. One word and he would have to let me leave.

“Wait,” he said. “Please.”

I stopped and looked at him, not bothering to wipe the tears from my face. Tears that dripped hot and fast onto my wedding dress.

Mr. Markham sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. “I fucked someone else.”

My stomach rose into my chest, and I knew I was going to be sick. What was he saying? He had been with another woman…recently? While he was supposed to be with me?

He couldn’t mean that. He wouldn’t mean that.

“Julian,” I started but then couldn’t finish.

“The night Violet died. I fucked another woman.” He looked up at me. “You have to understand, fidelity was—is—one of the most important things to me. When my mother was alive, my father never made a secret of his mistresses or the maids he fucked or the houseguests he seduced. Mother never complained, pretended not to notice, but I could see how it killed her inside. So I vowed that I would never do that to a woman I loved. To a woman I didn’t love, even. I would only be with one woman at a time. So when Violet cheated on me with my valet, I was furious. I had suspected something for weeks, but hadn’t been certain. Didn’t want to believe it. And then she told me she was pregnant—” He bit off his own words and stared dully ahead. “I wanted to be a good husband, Ivy. Even after I realized that I didn’t love her, that I couldn’t be married to her any longer, I wanted to provide for her. Set aside a house and a decent living for her and her child. But she threatened to kill herself when I brought it up. She vacillated between suicide and threatening to fuck my servants and my friends in my own bed. I was infuriated. She stormed out of the house. I decided to give her time to cool off, then after our guests left, I would bring her back. Talk to her. Silas and I searched, and we couldn’t find her. We sent for the police and decided to catch a couple hours of sleep while we waited for them to arrive.”

I slowly sat in a nearby chair. “What happened?”

Old pain flashed in his eyes. “She made good on her promise. I found her fucking Gareth in my bed.”

“Oh, Julian.”

“I was so angry—livid and furious—I could barely think. I never blamed Gareth, you understand; I’d seen my father threaten and coerce enough servants into having sex with him that I knew it wasn’t really Gareth’s fault. But I blamed her. Yes, I blamed her.”

“What did you do?” My voice was barely audible now.

“At first? Nothing. I stormed out of the hallway and walked right into Brightmore. She had seen everything. She knew everything.”

I was beginning to understand. Remembered Brightmore’s words. I told the master how to handle a wayward wife. And he did.

“She didn’t say anything at first. But she left and she came back with the rector’s wife. Mrs. Harold had contrived some excuse or another to stay the night, probably for a chance to be alone with me. Our paths had crossed at many social events in the past…I knew she wanted me to take her to bed. I’d never followed up on her advances; I was never interested.” He sighed. “Brightmore dragged her to me. She told me that I needed to show Violet that I was the husband, I was the master, that her adultery would not be tolerated.”

Mrs. Harold. Her tears today made more sense now.

I had a hand pressed to my mouth now, the other hand fisted in my skirts. Oh God, the skirts that Mrs. Harold had helped dress me in…for my fucking wedding. The woman that Brightmore had hauled before Mr. Markham like a harem girl had helped me prepare to marry him and she had tried to warn me…

Julian buried his face in his hands. “And God help me, I listened. I wanted Violet to know—to feel—how I felt, even if it was only for a second, even if it was the barest shadow of the feeling. I pulled the rector’s wife into my room, threw Gareth out, and rounded on Violet. I tied her wrists to my bedpost.”

“What did you do to her?”

“To her? Nothing. But to Mrs. Harold…” He trailed off and then gave a bitter laugh, a dark noise that sent chills down my spine. “You know, she didn’t even say anything when my housekeeper hauled her to me like a slave, or when I tied Violet naked and crying to my bed. That woman dropped to her knees when I told her to, opened her mouth when I told her. All in front of my wife.”

I tried to hide the disgust in my voice. “So you made Violet watch?”

He looked at me. “If I’m to make a confession, I should confess it all. I may be damned, wildcat, but for some reason I feel as if we are damned together. That you will love me anyway.”

I glanced away from him. He’d hit upon the confusion that had been dogging me these past few weeks, the worry that I was as monstrous and toxic as he was. And he was right, I would love him anyway.

But loving and staying were two different things.

He stood, pacing in a jerky, agitated way. “I know I’m a terrible man, Ivy. But you must understand, I’ve never been that angry, before or since. All I could think about was hurting Violet in the same way she’d hurt me. The rector’s wife was so eager too, even with Violet right there. I fucked her over and over again, on her knees, bent over a chair, on the floor. I fucked her until I got bored with her, with my anger. I fucked her until I got bored of hearing my wife cry.

“I was consumed with watching Violet. I didn’t look at Mrs. Harold once. No, I only watched Violet, the way her wrists chafed raw as she pulled at her restraints. The way she begged me to stop. She tried to look away, but I wouldn’t let her. I told her I’d keep her tied to the bed for the rest of the day if she did.” He closed his eyes. “I can still hear her now. Sobbing, yelling obscenities.”

I lowered my hand, feeling ill. I imagined Violet’s tears, her flushed and splotchy face as she demanded to be untied, as she begged Mr. Markham to stop. I’d known he could be barbaric. But this…

“It all made me hard. Her futile rage. Her betrayed shock. Her incandescent hatred. No matter how much I came, it wasn’t enough to release me from my need for revenge; I was able to fuck that Harold woman over and over again while Violet watched. I was lost to myself,” he continued. “But I didn’t care. I didn’t care at all anymore, and that’s what I realized at the end, as she screamed at me, as I fucked another man’s wife in front of my own. After a couple hours, I finally sent the woman away and untied Violet, expecting her to hit me, to try to hurt me. I would have let her. I hated her and I hated me, and for a while revenge felt delicious. But in the end, it was an empty gesture. Nothing would heal us, not punishment, not discipline, not matching betrayal for betrayal.”

He sat again, staring at the fire. “She never expected me to fight back like that, I think. She was so used to everybody—lovers and family and friends—giving her everything she wanted. I know that’s what broke her.”

I was such a tangle of confused feelings at that moment. I was horrified by Mr. Markham’s cruelty, terrified that he could wield that same cruelty against me. But I also couldn’t deny that there was a certain sickening justice in what he had done. I couldn’t deny that Violet was not an innocent party.

I couldn’t deny that a part of me, low and dark, flickered with something like jealousy of Violet or of Mrs. Harold. I didn’t cry when Julian unleashed his worst on me, I climaxed. And then begged for more. What would I have done? What would I have felt?

And why was I even considering something so awful?

“But she didn’t fight me. She’d stopped screaming by that point and was just staring at me. I’d never seen her like that…so upset and yet so quiet.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I told her to leave—that I planned on riding to Scarborough myself to tell the police she’d been found and that a formal search would be unnecessary. She didn’t storm away, she didn’t yell. She left. But I could see it in her—in the way her face had gone white, in the way her hands shook. She was about to break. Violet never bore anything patiently or quietly. This was the calm before the storm.”

“And then she died.”

“And then she died,” he echoed hollowly. “She’d always been a horsewoman, and she rode whenever she was upset or angry or happy…anything she felt, really, was reason to ride. When I got to the stables to leave for Scarborough and I saw Raven missing, I knew.” His voice cracked. “I knew she’d taken him. Of course, she was such a good rider, I didn’t worry. Not at first.”

The fire popped and I closed my eyes, still fighting back nausea. The rain outside continued to lash at the windows, thunder rolled in from distant skies, and the wind tossed the leafy branches and blew around the old corners of the hall. I listened to the comforting sounds of the storm, wishing I was outside running in it. Wishing I was away from this truth and this man. This cruel, perfect man.

“I didn’t cut the saddle,” Mr Markham said quietly, his voice barely audible over the rain. “But I was the reason she climbed into it in the first place.”