Cheryl Holt (32 page)

“I know.”

It was like old times, the two of them together, in her cozy home. Best friends forevermore.

The drug worked its magic. She closed her eyes and drifted off.

 18 

Kate stopped on the path, listening, waiting, hearing only the sounds of the forest. Sunlight dappled the leaves above her head, painting the ground a vibrant green.

“Pru,” she whispered, but she received no answer, and she sidled nearer to the McGee fence.

Prudence hadn’t visited in weeks, and Kate had assumed that Willie was at home, which would have precluded Pru’s sneaking over. But with the message that had just been delivered from the McGees’ stable boy, she was frantic.

Her heart pounded with dread and foreboding. She’d feared that something bad would occur. Willie reminded her too much of her deceased husband. He was a bully, a thug who enjoyed inflicting violence on others. She hated him, but recognized that he was dangerous and, as a female, she had to proceed cautiously. From her own experiences, she’d learned how little power a woman had against a man.

“Prudence!” she called more loudly, too worried to care if her voice carried through the trees.

“Kate!” The quiet appeal came from the bushes on her left, and Kate rushed toward them.

Prudence had collapsed next to a tree. Her face was battered, her eyes blackened. Her arm was on her lap, bent at an odd angle. She’d wrapped it in a towel.

Kate fell to her knees. “What did that bastard do to you?”

“He saw us, Kate. In the pool. He was spying on us.”

“Oh, God.”

“He was very angry.”

“I can see that.”

She ran her fingers across the jagged bone. “Your arm’s broken.”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“Maybe my ribs. It hurts when I breathe.”

“When did this happen?”

“Several nights ago.”

Kate sizzled with fury. All this time, Prudence had been in agony! What sort of knave would treat a dog so cruelly? Let alone his sister! Willie McGee was an animal who deserved to be shot dead in the yard like the rabid cur he was.

“Why didn’t you send for me?”

“This was the only chance I’ve had. He’s off on business.” She started to cry, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. “My insides ache. He’s been doing foul things to me. Terrible things. Don’t make me go back there!”

“No. You can’t. Not ever.”

Kate wasn’t sure what she should do. The ramifications of conveying Pru to Anne’s, of requesting Anne to provide shelter and doctoring, could be dire. Considering Willie’s stature and disposition, it was hazardous to intervene. Yet, she couldn’t forsake Pru.

She would plead with Anne for assistance, but if Anne refused, Kate would devise another route, even if it meant terminating her employment. She would camp out in a ditch with Pru before she’d return her to such a horrid fate.

Then and there, Kate made a vow that Willie McGee would never lay a hand on Prudence again. She would defend Pru, or die trying, would murder Willie in his sleep if that’s what it took to keep Prudence safe.

“We’ll hide you at Anne’s.”

“It’s the first place he’ll look!”

“But he won’t find you.” Pru was so frightened by the prospect that Kate added, “I swear it, Pru. Trust me. Can you stand?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then, relax, and let me do all the work. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

She picked her up and rose, cursing when Pru flinched, but it was impossible not to jostle her, and she seemed to pass out, which Kate imagined was for the best. Hugging Pru to her chest, she cradled her as if she were a wounded bird. Determined in her mission, she marched straight to the house and in the rear door, depositing Pru in the servant’s room that Captain Chamberlin had occupied for so many months.

If Anne allowed Pru to stay, Kate would conceal her more appropriately, probably in the priest’s hole behind the pantry shelves, but for now, the bed was easiest.

Kate nestled her on the pillows, propping one under her injured arm, and covering her with a blanket. The movements roused her from her stupor, and she was disoriented and afraid.

“I’m going to fetch Anne,” Kate explained.

“Don’t leave me,” Pru begged.

“I’ll only be a second. Close your eyes and try to rest.”

She went into the hall, steadying herself by inhaling slowly. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been so angry, but neither Anne nor Pru should have to witness her outrage. Both women were suffering because of the men in their lives. Both needed protection, friendship, and compassion, and Kate had to be the stable center that held them together.

If she was lucky, Pru’s appearance could be an unexpected boon. Pru required medical attention, and Anne could supply it, yet she was in no condition to utilize her healing skills.

With Lord Chamberlin’s departure, she was bereaved, somber, and in mourning, as Kate had predicted she would be. Anne had never loved before, had never had the opportunity to abide the glories and miseries of passion.

She was like a ghost, so beaten down by heartbreak that she seemed to have shrunk in size, to have blurred and faded so that she was a shadow of her former self. Kate couldn’t guess how long she would grieve, but she needed a reason to quit lamenting her handsome Captain. With a renewed sense of purpose, a task to take her mind off her woe, maybe she could muster the will to focus on the future instead of the past. Perhaps Pru’s arrival would be a focal point to lure her out of her doldrums.

Kate located her in her room, perched on the mattress and staring out at the road, as if she could still see him going. When Kate entered, she glanced over but didn’t rise, and Kate crossed the floor and pulled up a chair.

“You look distraught,” she noticed. “Are you all right?”

“I have a favor to ask, but I won’t be upset if you can’t help me.”

“What is it?”

“I have Prudence McGee downstairs.”

“Why?”

“Willie’s beaten her.”

“How bad is it?”

“Very bad.”

“Why would he?”

“Why would any man?” It was the infamy no one talked about, that no one addressed, for what a male perpetrated under his own roof was deemed to be his own affair, and others wouldn’t question his actions or interfere.

“Prudence didn’t mention what set him off?”

“No,” Kate lied. She could never share her deepest, darkest secret with Anne. “He’s done it to her before, but this time, it’s worse. Much worse. She needs you, Annie.”

“I know, Kate, but I’m so tired.”

“Please? For me?” She was being unfair, pressuring Anne so that she couldn’t say no, but she was desperate. “Just take a peek at her. I can handle her care myself, if you’ll tell me what to do.”

Kate was positive that once Anne saw Pru, and discovered the ravaging she’d sustained, she wouldn’t be able to decline. She was simply too kind to ignore someone who was ailing.

“You’re demanding too much of me.”

“I can’t turn her away. Where would she go? What would she do? I won’t send her home.”

“I realize that, but if she remains here, where would we keep her? Willie could have her forcibly removed. We couldn’t prevent him. And then we’d be in trouble for aiding her.”

Kate wanted to shake a triumphant fist in the air. If Anne was musing as to where they’d hide Pru, then Kate was on her way to victory. “I’ve figured out where to put her—while we ponder our next step.”

Anne sighed. “I suppose it won’t kill me to check on her.”

“She’s in pain, Annie.”

“Bring my laudanum and the tea tray.”

Anne walked to the hall, and Kate followed, assured that the two women she loved more than life itself would soon be on the mend.

Eleanor sat at her dressing table, studying herself in the mirror. A carriage rattled by on the street, a cool evening breeze rustled the drapes. The world continued to spin, common events transpired, while inside her bedchamber, the earth had tipped off its axis.

If she’d stood and strolled to the door, she was certain the floor would be tilted, and the impression of imbalance would have naught to do with her recurrent vertigo.

Could it be?

She gazed in the mirror. If such a momentous miracle had occurred, wouldn’t there be some visible sign to indicate that she had been transformed?

Her personal maid had just left. The poor woman had been embarrassed but blunt, specifying that Eleanor hadn’t had her courses, that there had been no pads for the laundress. Eleanor’s frequent queasiness, which was most prevalent in the morning, had also been referenced.

The trusted servant had been with her since she was an adolescent, was a widow who’d birthed several children, and she recognized the symptoms of pregnancy, as Eleanor—apparently—did not.

Fortunately, she was too courteous, and too deferential, to have probed for details as to how it might have happened. In a succinct fashion, she’d dispensed the facts, then had exited as rapidly as she could, and Eleanor couldn’t blame her. Who would welcome the dreaded responsibility of notifying their unwed employer that she might be scandalously expecting?

If her maid had deduced the truth, the servants probably all knew. While she’d presumed herself discreet, that her liaison with Charles remained a precious secret, the entire town house was likely brimming with speculation.

Were they all aware of her wanton adventure? How mortifying!

“Could it be?” she repeated aloud, murmuring the vital query to her reflection, a hand pressed to an abdomen that seemed too ordinary to be sheltering a child.

Charles had insisted she was increasing, but she’d refused to believe him. Why had she been so ready to renounce his allegations?

It would have been too agonizing to hope that he was correct, only to later learn that he’d been wrong. She’d wanted a child for so long, had beseeched and prayed, supplicated and sacrificed, but to no avail, and as she dawdled in the quiet, it was as if a voice spoke to her.

It’s true. You know it is.

A tiny spark ignited, and it began to burn, brighter and hotter, warming her with the marvelous news.

A babe! She’d made a babe with difficult, randy, handsome Charles!

The reality was so bizarre that she couldn’t process it, the notion so far-fetched, so fantastic, that she was teeming with a mixed jumble of supressed emotion. Was she glad? Terrified? Relieved? Shocked?

She couldn’t decide, so what did she wish to do? Depending on how she chose to view her situation, it was either a blessing or the worst catastrophe imaginable. Which was it?

She peered at her thirty-five-year-old face, her rounded, mature shape, the wisps of silver in her golden hair. Most women her age were becoming grandmothers, and a smug smile slithered onto her lips, a serene joy creeping through bone and pore. When she recalled the snide remarks and hateful innuendo she’d endured, she could barely contain a giggle of glee.

A pox on their sorry hides! Despite how Harold had berated, how others had pitied and laughed, it hadn’t been her fault. She’d merely needed a partner who could perform his portion of the job!

Hah! She’d shown them all!

Leaping up, she twirled in circles and danced a jig.

“I’m going to have a baby!” she sang over and over in an off-tune melody, delighted with the tidings.

At the window, she stopped and stared toward the mews. If she was about to have a baby, she ought to find herself a
husband, and there was only one man who would do. But after all they’d been through, would he have her?

Stephen had hinted that Charles was lodging in the footmen’s quarters over the stables—
just in case you were wondering,
he’d said—though if Charles was lurking in the barn, she hadn’t crossed paths with him. If she might have privately pined away for a glimpse of him, or stupidly anticipated that he would seek her out, she’d regarded her yearning as misplaced idiocy. They’d had nothing to say to each other.

They hadn’t conversed since that hideous night he’d interrupted their family supper at Bristol Manor. He’d announced their fling, then trotted off without a word of apology or good-bye, leaving her to explain and justify to her father and brother.

They’d ordered her to tell them about the affair, to confess if she was pregnant as he’d asserted. Why, Michael had actually had the temerity to ask if she’d like Charles murdered for what he’d done to her! To
her!
As if she were some fatuous girl, some innocent, who’d been led astray!