An Untitled Lady (7 page)

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Nash paced the house, read the papers, and paced the house again until the clock at last struck eleven, the earliest Mama ever rose. It was always a danger bearding her in her den before the coffee had kicked in, but he checked with her maid of chambers, who declared it safe.

She’d already ceded the earl’s chambers to Deacon, but even in the generous north light of her new rooms, she looked worn. Father hadn’t lingered, and his death was mercifully brief. But she had grown weak these past months. He should convince Deacon to take her to London, or Plymouth, or Spa. Society and sea air might do her good. It was foolish to think the absence of the canker that was his father would cure all her ills.

She sent for another pot of coffee, and watched him carefully as he sat in the chair opposite hers at the tiny boudoir table.

“So it’s to be an interrogation?”

“Mother.”

“I remember when you would sit at my feet, your head on my knee, eyes closed. Why, I would ask. Just happy, you would say.”

“A long time past.”

“But not so long a mother can’t remember. Dear heart, when was the last time you could say you were happy?”

So she was going on the attack. He could beat this back. “Friday, Mama, before I remembered I must attend Deacon in all his state and finery.”

She laughed. “A chance to visit me does not make up for the distaste you have for your brother?”

“It isn’t distaste, and you know it. Deacon cares not for what he should: the land, the people, the future.”

“So you are disgusted with me.”

“With you?”

“For not having birthed you first.”

Her tone was light, but Nash frowned. He hadn’t thought of it that way. “I do not mean to cast aspersions on you in any way, Mama.”

“No need for the formality, sweeting. I merely tease. You used to love that, too.”

He stood and walked to the window beside her. “Time has changed me. Not all for the good.”

“Was it really so hard in the Navy? Shaftsbury said you suffered terribly.”

“He told you that?”

“He truly was not the tyrant you boys paint with such relish. Oh, he could be hard, but deep down he was a good man. And he cared for nothing more than family.”

Here was his opening. Nash banished the stray feelings his mother’s words conjured up.

“Why was Shaftbury so interested in Madeline Wetherby? One, he was her godfather, and no one else’s.”

“Yes, while I wasn’t pure enough to stand godmother.” Her bitterness led him to turn back to look at her. She tilted her head, her long natural hair swinging in its tail. “She looks nothing like him, if that is what you are implying.”

“Two. When she has relatives of her own, he is the one who paid for her to go to school, and for far longer than he paid for Deacon’s schooling.”

“Deacon came home on his own. I’m sure Shaftsbury would have loved having him continue to Cambridge. Even Oxford.”

At least she was talking. He pushed on.

“Three. He maintained a steady correspondence with her. A regular exchange of letters, like clockwork.” He found it hard to swallow.

“So that’s it. You are jealous of the little orphaned girl.”

“I’m not.” But he was. He could at least admit it to himself. He dropped back into the chair, running his hands through his hair. He’d forgotten to do up the band in the back properly.

“You look a positive scarecrow. My brush is over there.”

He did as she bid, and sat cross-legged in front of her chair the way he had when a brutish boy. She brushed through his hair, none too gently. He winced and pulled away a bit. She harrumphed.

“Were you my man, I’d have barked at you already, Mama.”

“Your man, had you one, wouldn’t touch you, seeing this rat’s nest. Did you sleep at all?” The pulling gentled, carrying his thoughts into a slower rhythm.

“I believe father intended to settle money on her, but it was to come with the marriage.”

“You learned all this from the lady’s correspondence?”

He stiffened, remembering the scene at breakfast. Miss Wetherby was contained, indeed, but not without passion. He sighed under his mother’s hand, relaxing again. “No, I’ve learned it from you.”

She brushed the last, now smoothed strands into her hand, and tied the bow a shade too tight. “She was a beautiful child. A green-eyed angel. Lady Wetherby was giddy over her. And Deacon.”

“Why don’t I remember her?”

“We kept you boys apart at that age. Deacon wasn’t ready for a brother then.”

Nor ever. Nash rolled his eyes behind closed lids.

“Don’t be so hard on your brother. It takes more than three generations to make a true peer. Cecil Wetherby is only the second, you know. Your father and grandfather took to it like fish to water, but our Dee has yet to find his way. Why make it harder for him?”

“Shaftsbury wanted this match, and he knew all about the lady.”

“Even wise men make mistakes.”

“Has she truly changed from yesterday to today, Mama? Did you?”

“Don’t be daft. Of course she’s changed. Everything has changed. And thank Providence we dodged that bullet. Can you imagine the scandal?”

“The same scandal as when he wed you, a tradesman’s daughter?” He tilted his head back. In reply, she kissed his forehead. “Has your mama slipped from her pedestal? I suppose your argument has merit. You always were the little debater. If the girl is a squire’s daughter, she might do for the likes of you, perhaps. Deacon, never.”

“What if her father isn’t even a squire?”

She rested her hand on his shoulders. “So strong.” Her touch melted some of the stiffness. He rolled his head to ease the tension in his neck. “This has nothing to do with you, my sweet. Don’t vex yourself. You have enough to worry about, with that monstrous warehouse and all your men scurrying over the seven seas.”

He allowed himself the luxury of a moment’s relief. His mother’s voice could always soothe him. It was good to know that, at least, still held true.

“After all,” she said in that honey voice, “this is family business.”

Nash shot to his feet, chest burning.

“You seem to forget, ma’am, that I am part of this family too.”

“I have not.” Her voice was nothing soft now. “You were the one who deserted us, and who kept away. You always make it so clear how unhappy you are whenever you deign to make an appearance.”

“I will not argue with you, Mama.”

“Because you haven’t the standing.”

“No. Because family is a birthright. Regicides still have families. It seems that only I do not.” And Miss Wetherby, he suddenly saw.

She frowned, a paper subterfuge. As he walked away, she called after him. “Make peace with Deacon.”

“I have no argument with Deacon.” He could not keep the anger out of his voice.

“Then you should have no problem with it.”

Nash had just enough control to keep from slamming the door.

* * * *

Maddie remembered the castle as a medieval palace, but the truth was it had been built only a century ago by an earl whose chief image of a castle was square turrets and walled gardens. The entry might have a weighty iron drop-gate, but the outer walls had wide windows, difficult to defend.

Its name, Shaftsbury Castle, had captured her imagination. At school, during gusty winter afternoons, she would conjure up a vision of her life-to-be, queen of the castle. Its king, the new earl, had been no more than a dark shadow at her left as she walked the corridors or welcomed guests to the many evening entertainments at which she would be the perfect hostess. She sat through countless fine concerts in Bath’s upper Assembly Room, transposing them in her mind onto a stage somewhere in the castle, with herself the proprietress. She would host singers and harpists especially.

Now, on this very real day in late May, Maddie wanted only to escape the castle, to be free of this tangle if only for an hour or two, to be somewhere that made sense. The walled gardens, which rambled alongside the south wall, were the perfect choice. Her traitorous feet took her in the opposite direction, though, toward the castle’s working side. She passed the kitchens, their animal pens just below the hill. When she saw the two-storey horse barn, she knew why her steps had brought her here. This was where she’d hidden on that long, fretful, summer’s night.

At the side entrance, her hand reached down for the latch, not up as she had then. As she passed through, her shiver was memory, not terror. Just as on that night long ago, no one saw her.

She trod carefully through the tack rooms and skirted the stalls, her quick breaths pushing the strong animal scents out as fast as she took them in. The ladder was in the same place, leading to the loft.

This time, she had to climb it one-handed, her other hand managing the folds of her grown-girl skirt. Ladies did not climb ladders. Still, she didn’t hesitate, drawn forward as if she were a pilgrim only steps away from Mecca. She stepped onto the platform, amid barrels of oats and bales of hay and straw. The window in the far wall was square and paned, but now only as high as her waist. Her sturdy boots made little sound as she walked toward the glass, but her steps slowed nearly to a crawl. Now that she was here, taking the last steps was almost too much. Even her shallowest breaths stung.

She touched her necklace, stroking the length of its tiny cross with her thumb. This was foolish fancy, not the sort of thing ladies engaged in. If she were truly a proper lady, she would be concentrating on the wreckage that was her future, not trying to recall that of her past. Maddie stiffened her shoulders and nearly ran the final few steps to the window.

Heedless of her hem, she sank onto her knees. The view out the window was the familiar green of the meadow beyond the walls, but it failed to soothe her. She rested her fists on the bottom edge of the frame. It was still loose. She pushed it aside to reveal a leather necklace, and the key. It fit easily inside her hand now. Before, she’d had to wear it under her dress to hide it.

Back then, she’d stand, back to the wall, as she’d seen the servants do, and he would walk down the hall, passing her, and then snap his fingers. “Mouse!” If she did not scurry fast enough, he hit her. Then he would hand her the key. “Get my tools ready.”

Scurry ahead of him, to his dressing room, where the dark oak chest lurked. Twisting the key in the lock, and pushing with both hands, she could slowly, painfully, open the lid. On one side were his tools. She didn’t look at them as she pulled them out. Because on the other side were Mr. Bun-bun and all the rest of her toys, taken one at a time as punishment for her infinite misdeeds.

She had no toys now. She didn’t want them anyway. They had chosen My Lord Viscount.

How she wanted to burn that chest, burn the whole house down. But the one time she’d tried she’d only spilled hot tallow on her arm, burning herself.

My Lord forever promised to return Mr. Bun-bun, once Mouse had learned her place, but she never could. And she was always caught when trying to run away. Four-year-olds are easy to run to ground.

Finally, midsummer festival arrived, with a huge moon to light her way the long, long way to the castle. It had taken her all that long night; she’d tucked herself away in the hayloft just as the groomsmen were stirring. She hid that damned key where My Lord would never think to look for it, and then slept like the dead until it grew dark again.

By the time a groom discovered who she was, it was too late to send her home. Lord Shaftsbury himself decided against it. “When they ask us, that’s when we’ll tell them you’re here.”

No one ever asked. After a few days bedding down with the housekeeper, she saw My Lord’s carriage pull up. She made herself so small no one could see her. Later, when she turned up starving for supper, the housekeeper brought her up to the earl, who told her about her new life, as a boarding-student way away south. It sounded marvelous.

Maddie saw she was swinging the key like a pendulum. Now it was just a key, one that likely didn’t fit in any lock. He’d likely changed the lock, all those years ago. Nothing to fear. And if school had not been completely marvelous, it had not harmed her, either.

The slights and fears that stung in those early forms were gnat’s bites when seen through the eyes of adulthood. The terrors she’d felt at Wetherby House were likely the same, just childish fantasies. What had Lord Wetherby done to her that lords hadn’t done to poor relations for ages? Her case was common enough, now that she understood more of the world. Then, she’d thought him a cruel, cruel tyrant; now she saw him as an unmarried man saddled with a traumatized, nearly wild infant. Small wonder he thought to take her to task; small wonder he did not know how to treat little girls.

But had the Lord Shaftsbury done any better? He’d had her raised to expect the world, or at least a peer as a husband, when the truth was she was more likely to be the governess than the lady of a great house. The disappointments of childhood paled in comparison with this latest letdown. Who had done her the most lasting harm—the lord who pretended she was a princess when she was a pauper, or the one who took pains to remind her how pauperish she was?