Beguiled (3 page)

“Do you want the truth, Dr. Rutledge? Shall I tell you what
I saw seven years ago? I saw my father thrusting between a seventeen-year-old
girl’s thighs while she sobbed in pain. Tears were running down her cheeks and
she looked at me—she saw me watching from behind the curtain and implored me to
help her. And I stood there, rooted to the spot, shocked to pieces as she
strained against my father’s weight. Arthur was grunting and moaning as he took
his pleasure.
That
is what I saw!
That is the truth. I am as guilty as Arthur is in what happened to Grace Leeds.
There is no delusion. There is no psychosis—only pure evil.
The
evil act of a corrupt man.”

“Are you still a virgin, Clara?” Dr. Rutledge asked smoothly,
ignoring her passionate confession.

She started back as if burned. “Why do you ask that? What
has that to do with anything?”

“A great deal, I believe. Your father has suggested that you
may not be
intact
. When you were in
the care of Branson Hamilton, did you allow him to use you sexually?”

Clara herself up stiffly.
Her veins
had turned to ice. “Branson was my betrothed. I was not in his
care
—I was his
wife
.”

“It comes down to the same thing, Clara. You claim you were
married to Mr. Hamilton but you told your father the offer of marriage was a
trick. It never came off. Can you explain?”

“I—it was—that is—I thought I was to be married soon. My
cousin had some issues to resolve and—I—”

“You engaged in sexual intercourse with your cousin. There
was no marriage. I am not here to judge, but to help you see that it was
this
act of sexual promiscuity that
provoked the accusation of rape you made against your father. It is called
transference
. You transferred your guilt
to your father. Wouldn’t you agree this is the most likely explanation for what
you saw?”

A series of compelling emotions washed through her. Clara
fought for calm. The urge to agree with the doctor’s analysis, to agree to all
of it if it meant being released, was strong.

“I-I cannot,” she cried out. “I have spent my life agreeing
with monstrous statements and acts of violence, accepting the unacceptable,
betraying my soul—and for my pains I have been institutionalized. If I am meant
to live out my days here, I will live them as an honest woman. Arthur Hamilton
raped Grace Leeds seven years ago and I am the only witness. That is the story
I shall tell from this day forward.”

Dr. Rutledge’s cool fa
ç
ade was momentarily shattered. “I am sorry to hear
that. You leave me no choice.” He rang for the orderly. “As you have refused a
less invasive method of treatment, I will institute a more aggressive tactic to
curb your psychosis. Your father’s instructions are clear. He will not consider
your return to his house until you are completely free of this demon and the
task has fallen to me to make you well again.”

The orderly unlocked the door from the outside and stepped
into the office.
“Yes, sir?”

“Miss Hamilton requires an escort to her room. Schedule an
ice bath for the patient within the hour.”

“No!”

The orderly, a burly man
with ginger hair, grabbed her around the waist and hauled Clara from the office
like a sack of potatoes.

Windemere
Parish, later that afternoon

VICAR WIMBLEY took a step back. “Good God!
Mistress Hamilton is confined to Gateshead! That is shocking news, sir. I am
terribly sorry to hear it, but I must admit I am perplexed. To release your
wife, you will have to gain your proof of marriage from the church you attended
in London.”

There was an aggrieved tone in
Wimbley’s
voice. Clearly, the vicar held a grudge.

“There isn’t time,” Branson said curtly. “I will be
travelling to Berkshire as soon as I have the parish records. Clara cannot stay
in that place a moment longer. She is in grave danger. It is imperative I get
to her as soon as possible.”

“Surely it is not as dire as that! A day or two will do her
no harm.”

Even Branson was puzzled by the dread he felt.
A premonition of great loss.
“It will not, Vicar. I must
take the parish records this instant. I am asserting my right to do so as
master of
Windemere
Hall and a gentleman.”

“But what you ask is impossible, sir! There is no record of
your marriage in that volume. It will not be of any use to you. I wish I could
give you better news but I confess, I am somewhat bewildered by this plan of
yours.”

Branson had not wanted to tell the vicar everything but he
had no choice: the danger to Clara was coming closer with every second he stood
here arguing the point. He had hoped the offer of a generous donation would be
enough. Apparently, it would take a blood oath after all to move
Wimbley
.

“I have to tell you something, Vicar, in the strictest
confidence. Clara and I were
not
married
in London. We are not married
at all
.
Her father forced her into accepting my offer of marriage before she was ready.
So, without her father’s knowledge, we decided to prolong the engagement period
and get to know one another better. Though we knew each other as children, we
had not spoken for many years. Clara had recently suffered a collapse that
precipitated a rest cure. I did not want to push her into marriage against her
will and risk a relapse. The strain on her nerves would be too much.”

“Most admirable, Master Hamilton,”
Wimbley
murmured approvingly.
“Most admirable, and quite in keeping
with Christian doctrine.
The sacrament of marriage is not to be entered
into lightly. Far too many fathers have turned it into a business arrangement
these days. I cannot pretend I am not shocked by your confession, however. You
have put Miss Hamilton’s reputation grievously at risk. I presume you mean to
marry the girl as soon as you have secured her release from
Gateshead
?”

Here it comes.
The blood oath
.
“You have my word on it. This has been a grave lesson to me, sir. I should
never have allowed it to come to this. My hesitation permitted her father to
retain his authority over her, though I never imagined he would stoop to this.
I mean to make Miss Clara Hamilton my wife as soon as it can be arranged.”

Vicar
Wimbley’s
expression became
very grave as the full scope of Branson’s predicament became clear. “There is
only one solution, sir. You must prove to the Director of
Gateshead
that you are Miss Hamilton’s husband. And for that, I will have to alter the
official record that is held in trust by this parish.”

Branson strained against his impatience. “I would make the
notation myself but if you are willing, the record must show that our wedding
took place on September twenty-first. You have my word I shall make good on the
entry in a manner befitting the dignity of this parish and yourself.”

“By that, I take it you mean a wedding of some substance.”

“A grand affair!”
Branson ticked
off the promises he had no hope of keeping.
“A reception, flowers,
music, dancing, an eight-course dinner—followed by a ball held at
Windemere
.
But first I must liberate the bride
without delay!”

Vicar
Wimbley
took up the task
with alacrity, filling in the marriage date on the appropriate line. He
accepted the donation Branson thrust upon him with gracious humility and
pencilled
the future Hamilton wedding in on his private
calendar. “I do look forward to meeting with your betrothed,” he said with a
guileless smile.

The vicar’s complete lack of curiosity as to the reason for
Clara’s commitment in the first place was truly remarkable. Branson was not
about draw it to the man’s attention. He wrapped the
Windemere
Parish Records in his leather satchel and made his escape before
Wimbley
could change his mind.

§

London
~ Colonel Brockville’s home, that evening

CAPTAIN STRACHAN listened without interest
to the dinner conversation that swirled around him. His mind was on more
important matters than society gossip. Several days had passed since Clara
Hamilton was confined to Gateshead Asylum. If he was serious about winning her,
he would have to use his father’s influence to get her out and soon.

Strachan had given the matter a great deal of thought over
the past few days. Clara’s reluctance to become his mistress was understandable
on the face of it. After all, she had been primed to think she would be his
wife one day. Her love for him was too strong to accept anything less. She’d
been insulted by his offer at first—yes—but after spending time in an insane
asylum with no hope for release, he felt certain Clara would see sense.

It was clear her desire for him was as hot as ever—it only required
manipulation to be made of use. As his mistress, Clara Hamilton would make a
passionate and yet submissive plaything. Her devotion would keep her willing
and his power over her offered up so many interesting notions for their bed
play.

Sadly, the same could not be said for his fiancée, Miss
Trudy Delisle. She looked beautiful tonight, as always. Not a hair out of place,
perfectly poised and in control of her emotions. Trudy would never strike a man
across the face in the heat of anger.

Strachan still felt the blow Clara had landed under his left
eye. His little stammering caterpillar had emerged from her cocoon in the form
of a fiery butterfly. Her blood red lips taunted him to give chase. Down her
head would go, his hands pulling her hair, forcing those lips apart to take his
rigid manhood—

“Captain Strachan, a penny for your
thoughts?”

He blinked, rudely yanked from his reverie.
“Yes, my dear?”

Trudy dimpled but her eyes were cold. “We
shall have none of your solitary brooding tonight. Do let us know what you have
been meditating on with such absorption? If you say it is our wedding, I shall
have to call you out. You have not shown a sliver of interest since our
engagement was announced.”

He forced a smile to his lips and turned appealingly to his
hostess, Mrs. Brockville. “My lovely lady does not exaggerate. I’ve been
distracted of late by a recent business development. It has taken up a great
deal of my attention.”

Colonel Brockville puffed out his chest and opened the lower
button of his uniform. “Come now, Strachan. Don’t be coy. I’ve heard you’re in
thick with Arthur Hamilton and our poor Mrs. Clara Hamilton has been whisked
away to a sanatorium in Berkshire. Tell us all about it, man.” The colonel
wheezed into his napkin. “Mrs. Brockville has been on tenterhooks all evening
waiting for you to bring it up. Do not keep us in suspense.”

He shot an uneasy glance at Trudy to register her reaction
to this news. Brockville was like a bull in a china shop these days with his
bold questions. The old man had taken a shine to Clara and he seemed
inordinately concerned with her welfare much to Strachan’s irritation.

“My part is very small. I assisted Arthur Hamilton with a
financial embarrassment and there is little else to it. However, my offer to
help was misconstrued by Clara. She flew into a rage and had to be restrained.
Arthur was given no choice but to send her away for treatment. I can testify
that his fears were legitimate. Clara was completely irrational.”

“Oh my heavens!”
Mrs. Brockville
exclaimed. “What could have brought on her collapse? Mrs. Hamilton was
perfectly calm and reasonable in our company, wasn’t she, Miss Delisle? Didn’t
you think so? I was exceedingly charmed by the young lady.”

Trudy examined Strachan with a cool eye. “Mrs. Hamilton was
experiencing some marital troubles but her spirits and mind seemed sound. There
is obviously more to her story than she let on. Mr. Branson Hamilton’s outburst
at the Ball was rather over the top. You were at the centre of that storm,
Strachan. What happened between them?”

Strachan seized the chance to deflect Trudy’s curiosity.
“That is how it began—the cause of Clara Hamilton’s collapse. She was forced to
admit to her father that Branson Hamilton was
not
her husband after all. The wedding was a sham. Branson was in a
fury about it; the marriage ruse was vital to his gaining control of Hamilton
Trading. Fortunately, the loan I made to Arthur Hamilton has cut the villain
off at the knees.”

“My, you’ve taken an extraordinary interest in Clara
Hamilton’s affairs!” Trudy’s voice sparkled. “I’m just having trouble believing
a word of it! Do you, Mrs. Brockville?”

“Oh, I quite agree with you, Miss Delisle. It is impossible!”
Mrs. Brockville had set her fork down, so flabbergasted was she by Strachan’s
announcement. “I cannot credit it. Not
married
?
But they were living together under the same roof! What does her mother have to
say about it?”

“Portia Hamilton keeps to her room. She has all but
abdicated her responsibilities to her husband.”

Mrs. Brockville turned on her husband. “Colonel, you must
speak to Mr. Branson Hamilton without delay. Get him to see the error he has
made. I am confident he will do the right thing once the danger to Miss Clara
is made clear.”

The colonel flung his napkin down. “Well, of course, my
dear! Were it not for the fact that the bride-to-be is in an insane asylum, I
should be delighted to instruct young Hamilton.”

“He would not listen in any case!” Strachan cried and then
tried to smile to cover his frustration. “Branson is pursuing a plan of revenge
against the entire Hamilton family. He is as proud as Lucifer and twice as
deadly. If it were not for my intervention, Arthur Hamilton would lose his
company tomorrow, and quite possibly his liberty. Branson Hamilton does not
care about Clara. She was a pawn.”

Mrs. Brockville shook her head firmly. “Perhaps that is what
he wanted Clara to believe and you too, Captain. But I do not believe it. That
man is in love with Clara Hamilton.”

“Give it up, my boy,” laughed the colonel. “My wife is a
hopeless romantic. You will not persuade her.”

As Colonel and Mrs. Brockville resumed eating, Trudy Delisle
leaned across the table to have a quiet word with her fiancée. “When this is
over, darling, I shall expect you to tell me what it was about your loan of
money that caused Miss Hamilton’s collapse. I am not a fool. Do not think you
can treat me as one.”

Strachan nodded and tried to appear unconcerned. The
shareholders’ meeting was tomorrow and immediately after, he intended to ride
to
Gateshead
Asylum to rescue Clara. Once she was in
his power, there was little anyone could do to prevent him from taking her to
bed.

§

BRANSON FOUND a tavern that was still open
and inquired after lodgings for the night. The landlady led him down a narrow
hall to a plain room furnished with a bed and nightstand. Gladiator was stabled
at the
smithy’s
and Branson was too exhausted to eat.
He kicked off his boots and flopped down on the mattress.

He had sent
Harkness
with the
carriage back to London after the horses were watered and rested; a hired boy was
sent to fetch Gladiator from
Windemere
Hall for the
journey to Berkshire. A single rider could make better time and even with these
measures he was forced to find lodgings when it became too dark to see the road.

The Parish Records book was in his leather satchel. Branson
withdrew the heavy volume and carefully turned the pages to the year 1860. He
found the correct month and running his finger down the column, Branson located
their names.

Grace Leeds and
Branson Reilly married on this day in
Windemere
Chapel.
Vicar Merrick presiding.
Piers Leeds was
down as their witness.

Branson stared at the entry dully recalling the idealistic
young man he used to be. That young man had stood at the altar with a girl he
thought he loved and made a vow. A vow that had torn him up inside, destroyed
his conscience, his hope, and his joy in living.

Branson swore aloud to the God he no longer trusted. He had
been trapped in youth by a corrupt society and held prisoner in adulthood by a
corrupt love.
The phantasm of Grace Leeds
would not release him. Their marriage was a bitter gall at the back of his
throat that he had tasted every morning for seven years.

Until Clara.

That
introduction
was the real cruelty. To show him what his life might have been but for a
cursed twist of fate, and then demand that he turn the very one who made him
happy against him! It was like cutting a vein. If he had any sense of
self-preservation, he would leave her in
Gateshead
.
Turn around and ride back to
Windemere
where he
belonged.