Punish Me With Roses - a Victorian Historical Romance (2 page)

The man saw her approach and she wasn't prepared to see the expression that flitted across his face. Perhaps she was imagining it, but he seemed to have been expecting her. Something about his comfortable, genial demeanor tipped her off.

She dismounted, and before she could show him what she'd brought, he spoke to her.

"Now who might you be, pretty lady?"

She held the basket of food in front of her body. "I came from Blackmoore. We saw you walk by and thought you might be hungry."

He smiled with the look of a man who'd seen it all. "Sit, sit."

She somehow managed to make sure that only her cloak was lying in the snow when she sat down. She had planned to unpack the basket, but he took it from her hands as soon as she was seated. It was just as well, she thought. She assumed he was grateful enough to have the food. She didn't have to serve it to him too.

He nodded slowly as he surveyed the contents of the basket. "You're a kind woman," he said as he picked at one of the entrees.

She studied his relatively clean face.  Most prominent was the gash that snaked across his temple. That
poor
man. "I wish I could offer you shelter for the night, but--"

He didn't meet her eyes, eating while he spoke. "You were told not to."

She felt Hugh's offenses afresh at the man's sure response.

"I'm sorry to assume, but I've been turned away from that manor before. It's why I didn't even try tonight." He ate voraciously but paused every so often to wipe his fingers on his jacket. His clothing was torn, but quite fine. It made her wonder what fascinating stories he might tell of his past.

"I must apologize on his behalf." She wondered if a conversation with this man could possibly be more welcome than one with Hugh's richest electors. "Do you normally frequent these parts?"

He gave her an odd look then, in between picking at the pheasant with short, clean fingernails. "Why do you ask?"

Taken aback by his response, she said, "I was merely interested."

Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea.

She started to stand up. "I'll let you eat the rest of your dinner in peace. Merry Christmas."

He stopped eating, his face contorted in confusion. But only a moment later, it was gone. He grinned. "Did I hurt your feelings? I wouldn't want to do that to such a kind lady."

She felt an unexpected wave of fear settle over her body. But the man hadn't moved. Was it paranoia, the cold winter air, or instinct? No matter what his protest, she didn't intend to stick around long enough to find out.

"I am sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. Please let me give you something in return for this feast."

Her heart beat faster as she started to step away. "That's not necessary."

"I insist." He began to root around in his old knapsack.

She glanced at her horse. She'd never been able to mount on her first try without a block. Rather than have her back to him, she supposed it was better to wait and see what he wanted to give her. Could it really be anything bad? If it was a knife, she'd run. A gun, she'd--

There was no way he could have a gun...
could he?

She was about to scream for help when he produced the item that he'd been searching for: a bottle of amber liquor. He handed it to her and it felt cool in her hands.

She was so relieved that she smiled at the bottle as if it were the best Christmas gift she'd ever received.

"It's French brandy," he told her. "Better, and more cheaply obtained than anything you'd find here."

She wondered how he'd come by the liquor and hoped that it wasn't stolen. But accusing him of anything wouldn't return the bottle to its rightful owner, so she accepted graciously. After all, Hugh would be pleased. He'd never been one to turn down a good drink.

The poor man had already gone back to the basket. He was eating slowly then, but that was probably out of embarrassment. He must have been starving.

"Merry Christmas," she said again and he waved. Without assistance, she mounted on her first try. Things were looking up. Feeding the beggar had probably done more for her than it had for him. Her problems were petty in comparison. Hugh was a fiend, but she should be thankful for what she did have. Moreover, it
was
Christmas.

When she finally made it back to Blackmoore, she thought it would be best to sneak inside. She slipped between two groomed hedges and entered the garden. The shrubbery path led to the veranda outside Hugh's study. It took her only a moment to assure herself that it was empty. She went inside.

Finally some warmth!
The fire had been left on and she discarded her cloak halfway into the room. It would drip water onto the floor as the snow melted, but at that moment she couldn't find it in herself to care. She was flushed with the success of her mission.

She sat in front of the grating long enough to feel whole again...both physically and emotionally. When she was ready to go to bed, she thought of leaving the brandy on the floor with the cloak, but thought better of it. She carried to bottle upstairs to her bedroom, pulled back her bed curtains, and slid the brandy underneath the bed. But while she started to get undressed, she felt as though something was missing. She bolted to her dresser with an idea of what might have been disturbed. She ripped at the ribbon that held the key from around her neck and opened the secret drawer.

Then she took a deep, satisfied breath. Everything was there. Hugh had not taken the letter, as she'd feared. Nor had anyone disturbed the thin vial of arsenic, a gift from her mother. She didn't know if she would ever try to lighten her skin with it, as many ladies did, but it was nice to known it was there if needed.

She looked around her room once again and realized what was missing. She laughed. It had obviously been a rough day for her if she'd jumped to such wild conclusions when the only thing missing was her nightly tray of milk and biscuits.

She found her dress where she'd discarded it and peered at the watch pinned to the bodice. It wasn't too late to ask Betsy fetch her a bedtime snack. She pulled the bell rope.

She was wearing her dressing gown when, a little while later, a teary Betsy entered with the tray. "I'm sorry, Miss Victoria. As soon as you rang, I remembered."

Faced with such a sorrowful expression, Victoria couldn't be cross with her. "Whatever is the matter?"

"I can't tell you, Miss. It would be wrong, and I can't imagine what you'd think of me."

She looked around the room. "Was there something else you forgot to do? I'm sure we can easily remedy whatever it is. No need for hysterics."

"No, you don't understand." She sniffed, wiping her nose with the end of her sleeve. "If only it were a few forgotten biscuits..."

She was submitted to a new round of tears, shaky, pitiful breaths wracking the young girl's body. Perhaps the job was too much for a teenage girl, she thought, but many girls started work long before fourteen.

It had taken her this long to place the tray on the nightstand and now--with tears still running down her face--she turned to leave.

"Wait just a second, Betsy." She went to stand in front of the maid and, with a hand on each shoulder, looked her right in the eyes. "You're not leaving here until you tell me what the matter is."

She considered it and then broke. "It was Mr. Clavering!"

She released her hold. "He's been cruel to you again."

Betsy nodded. "The cruelest he's ever been."

"What exactly did he say?"

She looked to the floor. "I would need to explain, Miss..."

"Then please do so, Betsy."

"You don't understand. I did something terrible."

"If you were bold enough to do it, you should be bold enough to tell it."

This seemed to have its effect, for in the next moment, the young girl raised her head and said, "I slept in Mr. Clavering's bed."

"Where was he? How did--" She stepped back. "Oh! You mean..."

She nodded.

"And something... transpired?"

Betsy's face was a blank. "If you mean to ask if anything happened while I was there, the answer is yes." The sleeve acted as an emergency handkerchief once again. "Now I'm with child and without a job come next week."

"He's putting you out in the cold?"

She nodded. "He said it was my duty to make sure nothing like this could happen."

"Does anyone else know about this?"

"No."

Victoria paced the length of her large mahogany bed. Ideas formed in her head. "Betsy, don't tell anyone else what you've told me."

Her eyes glistened with more tears. "If you can help me, I'll do anything you say."

"I can't guarantee, but I'll try."

"Thank you, Miss!" She offered a wobbly curtsy and a shaky smile.

"You may go."

Betsy left Victoria alone with her thoughts.

Hugh, you sniveling muttonhead!

She couldn't believe he'd sunk so low. There was no longer a question that she might be expecting too much from him or blaming unjustly. No, he'd crossed the line and given unflinching proof of his rotten nature.

And ruined a promising life along the way.

While Victoria was older and could move past her hurt, Betsy would find it difficult, especially with a small reminder that would make employment difficult and living arrangements troublesome.

But instead of just thinking about it and becoming more outraged by the second, what could she
do
about it?

Victoria sat on her bed and looked at the biscuits with renewed interest. She picked one from the plate and nibbled it as she thought. Her mind was already on the correct track. Hugh deserved anything she might give him, but instead of punishing without reason, she would eke out her judgment in a way that would benefit both she and Betsy. Somehow, Betsy must retain her security and Victoria must be able to see her uncle. One needed to break free from her short leash, the other become reattached. She was sure she could think of something.

First Betsy.

The obvious solution was marriage. Marriage to the father was out of the question, so they would have to look elsewhere. Many men didn't welcome marrying a woman carrying another man's child, but something could be arranged. The new couple could be given work and a cottage on the estate, something the prospective groom wouldn't have achieved otherwise.

She sipped her milk. Her idea could definitely work, but Hugh was still the problem. He would stand in the way, making all her plans as useless as a horse without a saddle.

If only Hugh were out of the way, it would work. In fact, it would solve her problem too. His estate manager was a
true
gentleman. He was also single and apt to flirt wildly with her at every chance. If Hugh went to London for about a month, Betsy's situation could be fixed by the time he returned. The manager had authority over cottages and work distributed, so she could convince him to do as she said. But how could she get Hugh to leave?

She finished her snack while thinking on that question. She was rewarded with a full stomach, but no answers.

Wide-awake, she remembered the brandy. She'd thought it would make a good nightcap when she'd brought it upstairs. The circumstances surrounding the acquisition of the liquor entered her mind as well. She'd truly been afraid for her life for a few seconds in the cold, ruined abbey. Had she sensed something sinister about the peasant? It was a ridiculous thought. He didn't have any reason to kill her. Come to think of it, she had more reason to get rid of Hugh than any poor man had to--

She wanted to clean out her mind then, ashamed of her thoughts. Even though Hugh's demise would solve all their problems--and permanently--she would never consider such a thing. Her morals would never allow her to kill someone. But making them too sick to move might be an option.

She thought of the arsenic she had hidden in her drawer. Then she looked at her empty glass of milk. Ideas formed in her head, too quick to consider each in turn, too ingenious to disregard.

Victoria remembered the time Georgia Henley, her mother's best friend, took too much arsenic to whiten her complexion. It was thought that she would die from the poison, but the doctor made her drink a copious amount of milk and she lived on. If Victoria were to make Hugh ill with arsenic, he would likely go undiagnosed. Even the smart Italian doctor was quite baffled until Georgia confessed her folly.

With Hugh immobile and sick as a dog, two problems might be solved. Betsy could step in with her miraculous cure, which would simply be milk, and Hugh would be forever grateful. In meantime, she would be getting settled in Cornwall, having left during the confusion.

If everything goes as planned.

She pulled the bell rope once again.

While she waited, she measured out the amount of arsenic that would do the trick. Then she pulled out the bottle of French brandy and poured the powder through the small, round opening. She shook the bottle and watched the particles dissolve.

Betsy appeared seconds later, her appearance disheveled. "What can I get you, Miss Victoria?"

"I'm sorry I woke you, but this is important." She screwed the cap on tight. "Take this bottle to Mr. Clavering's private study and replace whatever liquor he's drinking currently. I'll explain everything later, but for now... just make sure no one sees you do it."

Victoria turned over in her empty bed. Where had the inexplicable longing to be woken up by the morning yawns of a man come from? She didn't have any friends, much less suitors, so the dream was just that, a fantasy she couldn't hope to realize any time soon.

She wriggled from beneath the crisp, white sheets. When her feet touched the ground at her bedside, she shivered and lunged for her dressing gown. Then she paused.

Wasn't it much too quiet for a house full of guests?

The window was frosted over and she rubbed a clear space with the side of her hand. She'd barely had time to notice more snow had fallen overnight, when the maid came bustling in.

"Oh, Victoria!" Betsy pulled her away from the window after she'd plunked the hot water onto the top of the dresser. "You'll catch your death. We don't want another tragedy in the same morning..."