Punish Me With Roses - a Victorian Historical Romance (11 page)

"It's the roses," she cried. "I've found another, but this time with a note." She reached into her waistband and produced the small slip of paper.

He looked over it. "This is sick."

"Do you think they mean to threaten my life?" She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I left beautiful roses on Mark and Hugh's grave, to show that I would always remember them."

"You don't need to worry, Victoria. I'll protect you."

"Should I go back to Blackmoore? Maybe someone knows who I am and wants to turn me in."

He shook his head. "We don't even know if you're suspected. It's best that you stay here for a while."

"I fear that I'm going to go crazy. I need something else to occupy my time."

"I thought Mr. Trevelyn has you well occupied as it is."

She frowned. "That makes me just as crazy."

He grinned. "I know how that is."

"Uncle, tell me about your wife."

His expression changed immediately. "Why would you want to hear about that?"

"I happened to come across her bedroom and--"

"I'll thank you not to snoop around this house."

"I was not snooping! I was looking out the window at..." She looked away. "I wasn't snooping."

"I have work to do."

"Please don't leave. I just thought it would be something I could do while I was here. I could find out about the rest of my family, honor their memory. I wanted to start with Fiona."

He practically growled his next response. "She was murdered, Victoria. Anything else you need to know?"

"
Murdered!
I had no idea."

"No. You didn't." He was at the door. "If you'll excuse me, I'll see you at dinner."

He left before she could answer.

Alexander watched Victoria as she stood in front of the unkempt grave, her face thoughtful. He'd followed her there, just he had the first time he'd seen her. She looked just as tempting, even if it was in a different way. The sun glinted off her long, dark hair and when she squinted her eyes against the sun, he'd swear she was smiling internally.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you."

Her entire body jerked when he'd started to speak. He had startled her. "And what, pray tell, will you do if you are disturbing me?"

"That's not a very ladylike thing to ask," he replied, but without any harshness.

She looked at the grave with a charming smile playing about her lips. "And I don't believe it's very gentlemanly to follow someone."

He coughed behind his hand, trying to obscure the abrupt choking sound he'd made at the back of his throat. "Could it not be possible that the reason we always end up in the same place is pure coincidence? What would make you think up such a wild fantasy?"

"The way you happen to appear everywhere I go," she said, the smile quickly disappearing. "The tendency you have to not look the least bit surprised when we do run into each other."

"All coincidence."

"The surprise too?"

He stalled by looking at the grave marker closest to him, then replied, "I'm usually so happy to see you that it obscures the wonder."

"I hope you don't expect me to believe that nonsense."

He smiled. "I was visiting someone, as I'm sure you are as well."

"Who, pray tell, are you visiting, Mr. Trevelyn?"

Good question. "An old friend. Whom are you visiting?"

"I was thinking more along the idea of a name."

"Who's name were you thinking of?"

She picked up her skirt and tried to walk past him then. But he wouldn't move aside and her skirt, with the multiple petticoats beneath, was too wide for her to slip by. "Mr. Trevelyn, you might try to distract me with silly questions, but I have no doubt that you've been following me. There's no one for you to visit in this part of the cemetery because we all know that an illustrious family such as your own wouldn't have anyone buried in the unholy corner of the yard."

It was hard to look into her eyes and see hurt within their depths. "I did come to visit you, Miss Fyn."

"Then you are following me." Her eyes narrowed with triumph.

"I suppose I'll have to admit it now that you've caught me." He bowed, gallantly removing his hat with a flourish. "Forgive me, my lady."

"But why are you doing it?" she asked in a softer tone. She shielded her eyes with one gloved hand and he couldn't tell whether the pink spot on her cheeks were from the sun or from her embarrassed curiosity.

"You captivate me, Miss Fyn," he said. As the words escaped his lips knew they were completely honest. "I know that I've been improper, but you must believe me when I insist that I've never meant you any harm."

Her eyes glittered and her hand fell to one side. He met her gaze for a moment before hers fell to the ground. She whispered, "Yes, well, the road to hell is paved with good intentions."

They'd come close to getting somewhere only two days previous and he let that experience inspire him. If Michael hadn't happened upon them, he would have kissed her until her lips were sore. He took a chance then and cradled her chin with his hand so that she would look at him.

Her eyes were glossy and wide. But in contrast, her mouth was pursed and uncompromising. It was obvious that she was fighting against something. What exactly, was a mystery.

"You're not a conventional lady, my dear."

"I--"

"You would never let societal conventions and foolish rules get in your way, would you?" Alex smiled and moved his thumb from side to side, hoping so much that he could win her over. "Surely a woman like that can forgive a man for trying to create meetings that might never have happened if left to pure chance." Her skin was smooth against his upturned palm.

"It just doesn't seem...proper," she said, but her voice was as weak as her protest.

"I can assure you that men have been doing it for centuries." He was counting on his ability to convince women. He'd never used his techniques on something so important before. He knew right then that he might not be able to win her complete trust as easily as he'd hoped, but that if he lost her esteem entirely, he might never see her again. And he knew he'd be ruined on too many levels if that were to happen.

Then she smiled. "I suppose you're right. It's a flaw of mine to think the worst of people." His whole world suddenly seemed brighter.

"Sometimes that is a good thing. The world is changing." He looked down at the unkempt grave. "I assume this is your aunt's grave?"

She looked at the tombstone and frowned. "You can hardly read the inscription."

"It's a shame the grave has gotten this way."

"Yes. Do you have any idea why that might be?" Her question was completely innocent. He was surprised sometimes by the extent and lack of her knowledge. She recognized that none of his family would be buried in such a place, but didn't understand why these graves would look so unlike the rest.

He wondered if it would be best to tell her the truth about it all. Even though it was a simple thing, he didn't welcome the idea of sharing such negativity with her. He hesitated by yanking a handful of weeds from the plot and throwing them to one side.

"You do know something about it, don't you?" Her expression made it clear that she saw right through him.

He forced himself to meet her gaze and not to look over her shoulder at the church steeple. "These graves are untended because of the occupant's crimes."

"Being murdered is a crime?"

"Your aunt committed suicide."

She was clearly shocked. "How?"

"She drowned herself at high tide. The sea is rough during a storm. Apparently, she jumped right in and that was the last anyone ever saw of her."

"But why?"

He shook his head. "People in Coverack like to gossip and anyone you ask will have a different theory. The true reasons behind her decisions, however, are a mystery. It was what I was thinking of when I looked at her picture in the drawing room."

"You said her eyes seemed to be hiding something."

"And they certainly were."

She shook her head slowly. "Why did my uncle tell me she was murdered?"

The birds overhead chirped so gaily that it was amazing to him that the animals wouldn't somehow know what an ill-portended conversation they were having. "I think, Miss Fyn, that you'll gradually realize that your uncle is a very curious man."

"But could she have been murdered?"

He sighed. "I would say no." His mind started to go on a trail of remembrance that he was sure he didn't want to walk down. "If your uncle believes that, he didn't when it first happened."

She looked at him strangely. "You're interested in what happened to my aunt, aren't you?"

"Well, I'm interested in the reasons why it happened."

"There is something chilling about suicide, is there not?" She revealed her interest in the subject by leaning forward and pressing his arm. "The most of us try so hard to stay alive, so to think there are those reject the gift of life is incredible."

"I also think it a fascinating subject, but not one I wish to know about firsthand." He offered her his arm to lead her out of the cemetery. He could tell that the heat was starting to affect her. Unless she was still feeling embarrassed, the spots of color on her cheeks were definitely a sign that she needed to be indoors.

She accepted his arm. "I wonder what I can discover about Fiona."

"It was quite a few years back."

"Yet you remember, Mr. Trevelyn."

They stepped over the broken iron gate. "Your aunt was a beautiful woman. I was only a child when it happened and it's the kind of story that inspires a lot of imaginative thought. One always remembers the events that affected them as a child." He grinned to himself and added, completely honestly, "I also had a little crush on her."

Victoria laughed. "I think it's refreshing that you're interested. I was hoping to discover more about the rest of my family, and I most certainly shall begin with Fiona. You've already helped me, but it's also nice to know I have someone to discuss my discoveries with."

"Not only would I be pleased to serve you, I am also interested for curiosity's sake." He realized that his words were genuine. He'd even painted a picture of Fiona that still hung in the schoolroom. He'd pictured her standing on the dark beach, the waves crashing against the black rocks on either side of her. Her shawl being blown by violent gusts of rain-scented wind.

"I'll also be asking you too many questions and expecting you to know obscure details about my family..."

"Anything I can help you with, Miss Fyn," he replied, not even acknowledging the joke. He was so willing to help that her exaggerations didn't seem so extreme at all. "In fact, I think I may be able to assist you right now."

She smiled and leaned forward. Her anticipation was as clear as thin ribbons on her gown.

"There's a certain old woman in town who knows far more than she should about everyone's business. Sometimes, she can be a nuisance. But in your case, she'll be quite helpful."

"And who is that?"

"The local midwife."

"Oh! But doesn't she have more important things to do than gossip?"

"You'd think! Actually, her daughter does most of the work nowadays." He saw her expression of interest and was glad he could help her solve her mystery. "Shall we go?"

She smiled, but once they'd taken a few steps away from the cemetery, she let go of his arm and fiddled with her gloves.

She didn't need to speak to tell him that the intimacy for the day was finished. She'd been so wrapped up in their discussion that she'd been overly bold. Of course, he didn't think she had, but he was positive that was what was going through her mind.

He debated over taking the long route to the midwife's abode. Any extra time he could secure with her was delightful. But he relented when he watched her move along and noticed that her breathing was short and shallow. The summer heat, even in such a mild-weathered area as Cornwall, was tough on a lady with more than three layers of clothing on, give or take a couple of layers. He couldn't know the exact number, but he imagined what was underneath.

They turned a corner then and she smiled at him randomly. It made him ashamed of his secret thoughts, but he couldn't suppress the animalistic attraction that went along with his respect. It would be like telling a dog not to bark. Impossible.

Chapter 6

The cottage had a thatched roof and a charming position at the end of a lane, but it also had a loud personality. Before they'd even passed the cottages of either of the midwife's neighbors, they'd heard a ruckus such that one could scarcely believe. The yells would run the entire gamut, from ear-piercing screams to low, pathetic cries.

Victoria almost wanted to walk past the small cottage without another look, but Alexander was there to encourage her to go inside. Finally, she took a deep breath and knocked.

They thought they heard a woman tell them to enter, but they weren't quite sure over the racket coming from within. They let themselves in anyway, but with hesitancy.

Her eyes immediately went to the older woman sitting in a rocking chair. She sat in front of the window seemingly oblivious to what was going on in, presumably, the next room.

But at the sound of the door, her head whipped around. "Mr. Trevelyn!" she immediately said with audible reproach. "I thought you'd never visit."

It was obvious that he was to be a welcome guest. Whether or not she had heard the knock wasn't clear.

Alexander led the way toward where the woman sat. Before they'd reached her side, he quickly whispered, "Mrs. Reed likes to think of herself as being as indispensable to the children she's delivered, perhaps similar to a nurse. She can be a little trying at times, since most children haven't any attachment to their midwife, but most people consider her charming and ignore her little idiosyncrasies."

She took affront at his warning. "I wouldn't begrudge a woman her happiness. If she claims more intimacy than most, it would only be the sign of a large heart."

He shrugged and before she could say another word, he brought Mrs. Reed into the conversation and the whispering ceased.