Macbeth's Niece (12 page)

Tessa had indeed captured the attention of
Lady Acton. Her son, Cedric, was everything Eleanor had described:
good-looking, wealthy, well taught, and—deadly dull, not so much
from a lack of intelligence, but from an inability to think of
anything but himself. His mother’s dotage, his good looks, and his
vast fortune had convinced him he was peerless among men. His hair,
seldom covered, was his pride and joy: thick, wavy, and
honey-colored. His posture was so erect as to appear uncomfortable.
And Cedric certainly had enough chin for a lord—perhaps for a lord
and a half.

Though she couldn’t deny his good looks,
Tessa secretly longed for a personality to accompany them. Cedric
considered himself a catch, and most of London agreed. He was the
type of man whom Tessa in her former days would have sent off in
less than three minutes with scathing comments resounding in his
ears. As it was, she smiled through clenched teeth when he told her
for the third time about the last hunt he’d gone on. He thought it
masculine to laugh loudly and often, which made Tessa’s head ache,
he used an exaggerated courtesy she found irritating, and he
endeared himself to her, or so he thought, by calling her Tessie,
loudly and often.

Cedric assumed any girl would be flattered
to be the object of his attention, and perhaps she should have
been. Though she tried, Tessa couldn’t feel flattered; the best she
could achieve was resignation.

Eleanor often caught Tessa’s eye as Cedric
droned on and winked to let her know she understood. He was far
from her perfect mate, but what could she do? If Sir William ever
discovered she was not family, she’d be homeless in a trice. She
had to hope for a match quickly, before her secret was out, or
before something happened to Eleanor, who weakened daily. The
others had begun to comment that she was losing weight, looking
tired. So far, Eleanor had laughed it off or used some excuse, but
Tessa could see she was very ill.

Lady Acton was herself a formidable pill to
swallow, manipulative and opinionated, especially where her son was
concerned. In Eleanor’s view, she was well disposed toward Tessa
precisely because she had no dowry or strong family ties. “She
wants control, and her son wants a beautiful wife to show off,”
Eleanor told Tessa as they washed their hair in rainwater, softer
and less drying than regular water. “They have all they need of
money, houses, land, and servants. You will always be under her
thumb, and she will hold it over you, too. Oh, my dear, can you
abide it?”

“I believe so,” Tessa answered, toweling her
thick curls thoroughly. “I am dishonest in entering into marriage
with Cedric—if he asks me—since I want the security of his name and
wealth, not Cedric himself.”

“That is how marriages are made.”

“Cedric’s mother is a gargoyle, to be sure.
I will manage as best I can to be where she is not, and I will give
her grandchildren, which will soften her, I hope. As long as we all
get what we want, is it so bad?”

“Not so bad,” Eleanor said sadly, “but I
wish you could wait for the man who makes you feel alive.”

Tessa looked up in surprise. “You knew such
a man?”

Eleanor’s blue eyes clouded. “Once, yes. But
my father would have none of it. The man I loved was merely one of
his knights, far removed from inheriting anything.”

Like Jeffrey, Tessa thought, but she pushed
it aside.

“Did you love him?”

Eleanor smiled sadly. “Oh, yes. And he loved
me. He hoped money would change my father’s mind, so he went off to
win his fortune, to Normandy.”

“Where is that?”

“Across the Channel. Miles hoped to get a
grant of land as a reward for helping the duke.”

“And what happened?”

“I never heard from him again, but it
wouldn’t have mattered. My father had made his bargain with Lord
Brixton. I pleaded with him to delay the marriage for a year, but
he would not.”

Tessa felt sad Eleanor had been treated so,
but the latter smiled brightly.

“As I told you before, I believe we must
make our own happiness. William allows me to do as I wish up in
York while he stays here in London. Mine is a better lot than
some.” She grinned at Tessa. “I’m afraid with your temper, you’ll
have to convince Cedric to be where you are not, or you will end up
braining him with a firedog.”

“Oh, no,” Tessa said, joining in the jest,
“it would take at least a pike to pierce through all that
hair!”

Chapter Eleven

After a month in London, Tessa was sure
Cedric Acton would soon ask William for her hand. Lady Acton had
deigned several times to speak to her, and others of the older
ladies treated her in such a way as to indicate their understanding
she might soon be someone of importance. One evening at a dinner,
she was seated across the table from the two gargoyles, as she
privately called them, Dame Ballard and Lady Acton.

Lady Acton set her rather nearsighted gaze
on Tessa, her eyes narrowing as she tried to focus. “William says
you will soon return to Brixton.”

Tessa knew nothing of this but gave no sign.
Leave it to William to hint they were to leave soon so Cedric would
ask for Tessa’s hand. The old lady continued, her voice giving the
distinct impression she bestowed a great favor. “You must
visit—with your sister, of course—and see my gardens for
yourself.”

“Thank you very much, my lady,” Tessa
answered as sincerely as she could. “I consider it a great
privilege.”

“Yes,” the lady drawled in agreement. “You
must plan to come in August, when the dahlias are at their
best.”

“Of course. I will speak to Eleanor of it as
soon as possible. Thank you for your kind invitation.”

“I’m sure she’ll be glad to come,” Lady
Acton pronounced, the over-sized jaw setting firmly as she finished
speaking. Irritated by the lady’s assumption Eleanor would come at
her call like a puppy, Tessa forced a weak smile and turned the
conversation to the weather, which had grown very warm. This woman
might become her mother-in-law. She must learn to accept her,
pomposity and all.

Eleanor’s plans for the girls proceeded
well. Mary’s young man, Francis Hope, had stammered a proposal in
the second week, and Alice and Cecilia moved sedately forward in
their friendships with several young men. Plans were made for a
celebration at York in the fall, to which many of their London
friends would be invited, but Tessa feared it would be too much for
Eleanor, who had admitted now to the others that she felt unwell.
Her husband took this as an excuse to send them all home and end
the unexpected expense of their stay.

Tessa happened to be in the solar with
Eleanor when William made his decision known to her. He entered the
room abruptly and began without preamble. “Wife, it is time these
females returned to Brixton. I have made every effort to please
you. The women have had their moment of celebrity, for which they
should be thankful. You are obviously unwell and will fare better
at home where Madeline can see to your recovery.”

“I am resting as much as possible, William,”
Eleanor replied. “Cecilia has not yet met anyone she cares
for—”

“Enough of this silly idea that girls should
have a say in the choice of their husbands! I allowed it for
your…sister—” William’s pause indicated his suspicions concerning
Tessa. “—and I believe she will be settled with Cedric ere long.
That is good, since both families will benefit from such a union.
The others may marry as I arrange for them and be grateful for it.
You will return to Brixton at the end of the week.”

For a moment Eleanor seemed about to argue,
but she did not. Her face was pale, and her usually bright eyes had
lost their sparkle. Over the past few weeks she had become terribly
thin, and when only Tessa was present, she sometimes let down her
guard and admitted to the pain she now lived with constantly.
William took her silence for agreement and turned on his heel,
leaving the two alone.

“I hope we have done enough for Cecilia and
Alice,” Eleanor said softly. “You have captured Cedric. The
invitation to Mirabeau is proof of that. And Mary is set on
Francis, and he on her. Just a few more days—”

“We have been given the best of
opportunities, and it has all been your doing,” Tessa told her,
pressing her hand softly. “You have been more than caring to all of
us, but especially to me, and I’m very, very grateful.” With that
Tessa went to tell the others, leaving Eleanor weak but with a
small smile of contentment on her face.

The ride home was quieter and more somber
than had been their coming. Eleanor felt pain with each jarring of
the cart wheels on the road, and Tessa silently cursed William for
sending them away. She had to admit he did not know the extent of
his wife’s illness.

By the time they reached Brixton Manor, the
whole party was quite exhausted. Auntie Madeline took one look at
Eleanor and paled. She ordered two strong servants to carry her
inside and told the girls to see to the unpacking. Later she
stopped Tessa on the stairs. “She says you know.”

“Yes,” Tessa answered.

“I don’t know why she’s kept it a secret.
Perhaps there could have been help—” The old lady’s eyes misted.
“What shall we do without her? She’s been the light of this house
for twenty years. I have loved her like a daughter, and now—”
Tessa’s eyes filled, too. Dear Eleanor, keeping up appearances
until they’d all had their chance at happiness.

Auntie remembered something and tottered
down the stairs. Returning in a few minutes, she put a letter into
Tessa’s hands. “I believe it’s from Jeffrey,” she said. “Read it to
her. She loves to hear from him.” Tessa opened the letter with
trembling hands. It was a large sheet, folded and waxed, and inside
was a smaller sheet that bore the words: “For Tessa, who can read
and sometimes should not”. Unwilling to open it with anyone else
present, she thanked Auntie Madeline and went to her room. Breaking
the seal, she read:

My little Scot,

I feel I must apologize for my behavior on
both occasions when we have met. I don’t seem to be able to do
anything correctly where you are concerned.

Yr Servant, Jeffrey Brixton

Tessa stared at the letter for some time.
What did it mean? Was he sorry he’d abducted her or that he’d
kissed her or both? The man was quite maddening, never saying
anything that made sense. And what of Eleanor? He couldn’t know how
ill she was. Tessa decided Jeffrey was merely clearing his
conscience. He had treated her badly—twice—and probably didn’t want
Eleanor to know about the second time. Would Eleanor be jealous of
Tessa? That was impossible to tell, but Tessa had to admit she
resented the love between Jeffrey and Eleanor, though she would not
ask herself why that should be.

Her thoughts went to the other letter, the
one addressed to Eleanor. Slipping her letter under her pallet, she
hurried to Eleanor’s room. Pale and weak, Tessa’s supposed sister
lay on a large, curtained bed in the center of the room. The
curtains were open, since it was a warm day, but at night they
would be closed to keep the sleeper’s body heat inside. The bed sat
on a raised platform to escape the chill floors. Lady Brixton
looked much smaller than when Tessa had first met her. She had lost
weight but seemed also to have shrunken, so that even her frame
seemed smaller and more fragile than when she had been in health.
Eleanor opened her eyes and smiled at Tessa, but it was a tiny
smile.

“I’ve brought you a letter from Jeffrey that
came while we were away. Auntie just gave it to me. Shall I read
it, or are you too tired just now?”

“Please, read it.”

“Dearest Eleanor,” Tessa read aloud. “I hope
this letter finds everyone well.” Her eyes filled with tears and
she choked on the words, but she gathered herself together and
continued. “I will soon board a ship for the north again, and I
wanted to send what peace of mind I can give you. I will not be
fighting this trip. I go to visit the new king of Scotland,
Macbeth.”

Here Tessa stopped in amazement.

“Is that not your uncle?” Eleanor asked.

“It is.”

“Why, that is good. Perhaps you can go home
if your uncle is now king.”

Tessa had read ahead, and she frowned.

The old king, Duncan, was murdered in his
sleep while visiting Inverness. There is no proof of who did this
thing. Some suspect the king’s sons, but others say Macbeth himself
did it. The oldest of the sons, Malcolm, fled to England to beg
help in taking the throne from Macbeth. I am sent to see what I can
find out. I know you will speak of this to no one except Tessa, but
I want her to know it is not safe for her in Scotland at this time.
It is whispered Macbeth is not himself, that he suspects all those
around him of perfidy. Nor is it safe for relatives of Macbeth in
England. For this reason, I am glad you have provided her with your
protection and none know her true identity. Keep her safe, I ask
you, though I know you love her and will do so for her own
sake.

Yr Loving Jeffrey

The two women sat quietly for some time,
taking all this in. What did it mean? Perhaps nothing, since Tessa
had given up hope of returning to Scotland. Her most prominent
feeling was joy that Jeffrey cared at least a little about her
welfare. These thoughts were interrupted by Eleanor’s voice, frail
but determined.

“We must burn this letter, my dear, so no
one can discover your secret.” Tessa obediently made a spark from
the flint at Eleanor’s bedside and lit a candle, putting the edge
of the letter into it until it caught fire. She took it to the
window slit, laid it there until it was ash, then blew the ash
outside.

“I have a favor to ask, Tessa.” Eleanor’s
voice was even weaker, her breathing more ragged. Tessa thought of
the bottle she had promised to bring when Eleanor could stand the
pain no more. Was it time? Could she be part of this woman’s death?
But Eleanor had something else in mind. “Jeffrey. What do you think
of him?”