Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hetty
It didn’t take long for Hetty to realize there was something wrong with the tea.
What else could explain her swift descent after each cup? Her aunt was drugging her, but to what end? A misguided need to protect her? For all she knew, the doctor had prescribed laudanum, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t outraged at the idea that it was being done without her consent. Recommended or not, Hetty thought the effects of whatever her aunt was administering were largely negative. Her thoughts were muddled and dark, her limbs nearly numb from disuse.
So Hetty had a new plan: stop drinking the bloody tea at all costs.
A part of her wanted to get up and demand the explanation she deserved from her family. But instinct urged her to wait. To take a breath and take stock of her situation for once. Because beneath her burning curiosity and simmering annoyance at being treated like an invalid, a part of Hetty knew that something was wrong. She’d felt it in the carriage when her cousin had been so brusque. Felt it again when her aunt had revealed that they had told no one of her disappearance. Were they prepared to pretend Hetty was in Bath for the rest of her life? Surely the story wouldn’t pass muster with any who might have known Hetty outside of her family.
Or was she really that alone in the world? Had her father’s insistence on living abroad meant that Hetty had no meaningful friendships in all of England?
She couldn’t consider it, or she risked sinking deeper into despair and accepting the cold, unwelcoming sort of affection her aunt and cousin offered her, because at least they were family .
Though it was hard not to compare how she felt when she saw a mere photo of her father against the vast emptiness she felt when in the presence of Celia and Claremont. Granted, an aunt and cousin would not engender the same response, but to have no response to them at all? It beggared belief. The only logical explanation that Hetty could conceive of was that they had been little more than strangers to her, even in her old life.
And if that was true, it meant they were lying to her, in addition to drugging her. Christ, Hetty wouldn’t be surprised to discover her aunt had never sent the letter to Helena, out of a misplaced desire to keep her unstimulated . It wasn’t a promising set of circumstances, and the longer Hetty puzzled over it, the more her gut urged her to do something. She needed to get out from under her aunt’s suffocating control and take charge of her own life. But how?
The house was quiet, her room as dark as ever. She thought it was still nighttime, and that perhaps she had a chance at moving about unnoticed. Blind as a bat, unfortunately, since she was still without her spectacles. Her arm reached out tentatively, out of habit more than anything else, but her fingers found the familiar shape of them on her night table. Excitement and relief surged through her as she slid them onto her face.
She sat up, her vision blessedly clear for the first time in far too long. Had her aunt left them there for her to find? It didn’t seem likely, given how adamant she had been about keeping Hetty confined to her bed. But then that left Claremont, and if anything, he seemed even less likely than his mother to aid her.
Did Hetty have a friend in the house? Someone unseen but perhaps aware of her impediment? And if so, would they be willing to assist her?
It didn’t matter. She’d have to find a solution regardless. But she’d have to move quickly. Hetty didn’t know how much time she had before her aunt would be back with another sedative tea, which she had no plans of drinking.
Hetty rose unsteadily to her feet, amazed at how quickly she had declined after days abed. The room was untidy, but there was a comfort in that. Hetty could see evidence of her old life in the messiness of it. She picked a discarded robe up from the floor and wrapped it around herself. It smelled like spring—citrus and honeysuckle. She could see the bottle in her mind, and herself reflected in the mirror on her vanity, dabbing the scent at her pulse points. It had been her mother’s favorite perfume, she recalled, and Hetty had worn it in remembrance.
Odd that scent had proved the most potent link to her buried memories. Odder still to recall nothing of her mother’s descent into madness. Perhaps her father truly had kept it from her.
She sat at her desk and retrieved a slightly crumpled piece of blank parchment from a stack of letters. She didn’t have much in the way of a plan, but she did intend to send another letter to the Maycotts, given that there was a decent chance her first missive had not made it to Mulgrave Hall. If she had felt any better, Hetty would have ridden there herself, but she knew she’d never make it in her current condition. She quickly scribbled the barest of messages for Jasper, all but begging for him to visit her at Sutton House in rather unsubtle language, on the slim chance that her first letter had been received but deemed unimportant.
But how to send it? She knew enough not to trust her aunt and cousin, who might be under the mistaken impression that the Maycotts would not be interested in her well-being. Worse yet, they might not want the Maycotts to know anything about how they were treating her.
Then she remembered the footman, and how he had studied her quite curiously, almost like he knew something she didn’t. Something she should . Perhaps he had retrieved her spectacles for her. Perhaps he was her unseen ally.
All at once, her decision was made.
The hall beyond her room was quiet and utterly dark. She tiptoed along the carpet, terrified to make a sound and alert anyone before she’d had the chance to dispatch her letter.
But the halls were empty. She hadn’t seen anyone but her cousin and aunt since she’d entered Sutton House. Granted, she had spent most of her time sleeping, but she hadn’t seen evidence of anyone coming to clean her room or tend to her fire. Her aunt brought the trays of food and tea herself, which struck Hetty as a strange thing for a dowager baroness to do.
Were circumstances so dire? Had her father’s finances been in shambles?
Instinct guided her to the kitchens, where she found a side door to the yard. She hauled on a pair of mucky boots and made her way outside.
Hetty found the footman deep in the stables, mucking out the stalls. He dropped the broom when he saw her. She likely looked a fright—hair ratty and loose down her back, clad in a nightgown and a robe, a true Bront? heroine off to haunt the moors.
There was no time for preamble. “What is your name?”
“I’m Jack, Mistress.” She guessed he was somewhere around seventeen. Still a boy.
“You know who I am, Jack?”
“Yes.” He nodded eagerly. “You’re Miss Davenport.”
Hetty still didn’t feel like it. “Did you work for my father before he died?” She needed to know where his loyalties lay.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Did my aunt recently have you deliver a letter on my behalf?”
“I’ve not been given a letter, Miss, not since well before you got here.”
So her suspicions were correct, though she still didn’t know the motive behind her aunt’s actions. That could wait. She looked around the empty stables. “Are you the only servant left?”
“I am now,” he replied. “There was a maid left in the kitchens, but they dismissed her as soon as you returned.”
“Are they mistreating you?”
“Haven’t paid me my proper wage in weeks, if that’s what you’re asking.” He scratched the back of his neck. “They say they’ll accuse me of theft if I report them.”
“I’m so sorry.” Hetty didn’t need her memories to recall that the punishment for theft was oftentimes unduly harsh. She didn’t blame him for wishing to avoid it. “Why not leave?” she asked softly. “Surely you could outrun their threats if you’re willing to get as far from here as possible.”
He looked at her as though the answer was obvious. “I’ve nowhere else to go.”
She had known the feeling, only her circumstances had been so dire that she had fled into the unknown rather than staying. And she knew now that it was only luck and a certain stern bastard that had saved her from a dark fate. Sadly, not everyone had Jasper Maycott to aid them.
She had one final question for him. “Was it you who retrieved my spectacles for me?” It was an entirely unselfish action, one that would say a great deal about Jack’s character and whether or not she could trust him.
He bowed his head, a blush blossoming on his cheeks. “I’m sorry for the intrusion—”
“I’m not angry, quite the contrary. I am in your debt, but I need your help once more.”
He stood straighter. “Of course.”
“Do you know where Mulgrave Hall is?” she asked, and Jack nodded. Surrey was only so big, after all, and Mulgrave Hall so magnificent. “I need you to ride out there with great haste and find Lord Belhaven.” Jack’s eyes widened. “You must give him this letter. He will be grateful to receive it, I suspect, and not at all cross with you for delivering it.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll see it done, Miss Davenport.”
Hetty looked behind him to the horse whose stall he had been tending to. The beast looked familiar, with beautiful bay coloring and a braided black mane. When she stepped closer with her hand outstretched, the creature leaned into her touch. He was velvet soft and warm.
“Is this my horse?”
Jack nodded. “He found his way back to us a day after you left.” She was so relieved to hear he had survived their ordeal. Jack handed her a small apple. “His name is Gringolet.”
“After Sir Gawain’s horse,” she mused, feeding him the apple, which he chomped gratefully. She looked back to Jack. “Thank you for caring for him.”
“I always hoped you would return home, Miss Davenport,” he said. “But why not come with me now and give Lord Belhaven the message yourself? I don’t quite trust your aunt and cousin, if I’m being honest, and I don’t like the thought of leaving you with them.”
Hetty had considered it, but she suspected the only way she’d discover the truth was with the element of surprise on her side. If she vanished, she might never know what had happened to her, or what had caused her to flee from her home the last time. And without that knowledge, she would be haunted by the unknown.
And besides, her aunt and cousin might not have the purest of intentions with her, but they were still her family.
“I will be safe, Jack. So long as you get this letter to Lord Belhaven as quickly as possible.” Once Jasper arrived, her aunt would have no choice but to cease her ministrations and actually listen to Hetty. The boy nodded and mounted the horse, urging Gringolet into a blistering gallop.
Once he was gone, she snuck back into the house and debated her next move. It was not yet dawn, and she didn’t much feel like retreating to her room to wait for Jasper. She thought back to her aunt’s claims that her inheritance was tied up with her father’s solicitors. If she could only see the papers and documents alluding to such, she might understand her position better. Perhaps if she could prove to Aunt Celia that she was not on the verge of going mad or destitute, she might begin treating her like a woman grown and in charge of her own affairs.
Eventually, she found the study, which seemed to double as Sutton House’s library. It was not nearly as impressive as Mulgrave Hall’s, but it would suit. For a study, the air was very Bohemian: peacock feathers and silk scarves were strewn about at random, vases of dead flowers lined the shelves, a half-dressed mannequin in a top hat leaned menacingly over the desk, and her father’s sketches were littered across every surface. These she wished to collect like precious jewels, when she had a spare moment to devote to the task. But for now, she had work to do.
She lit a taper, careful to close the door behind her so no light leaked into the hall. It was cold enough for her teeth to chatter, but she could not risk a fire, not when she wished to remain inconspicuous. She pulled a dressing gown from the rack, knocking over an ornate pot beside the fireplace, the contents clanging on the floor. Wincing, she waited for the sound of footsteps above her, but none arrived. Certain contents of the pot were not surprising: a fire poker, a pair of tongs, a wire brush, and a shovel, but curiously there was more than one sword, as though her father had been as likely to engage in swordplay as he was to tend to the fire. Even more curious, the hilt of the sword felt right in her hand when she picked it up, so much so that she had to wonder if she knew how to use it. It was another mystery to add to the list, to be explored when she could.
Looking around at the charming chaos of her father’s study, Hetty did not think the room had changed since he died. Was that her doing? Had the pain of losing him led her to crystallize his last moments, the messes he’d made and the tasks left unfinished?
She moved over to the desk and began absently adjusting the pens and inkpots, trying to recall more of the man who had left them there. She wrapped the dressing gown around her shoulders, breathing in the now-familiar scent of pipe smoke and turpentine, suddenly able to conjure images of her father humming Strauss to himself, or engaged in lively arguments with his financiers over glasses of absinthe, the only French import he would allow in his home.
With each conscious moment spent in the home she once shared with him, Hetty was remembering more of her father. Confidence surged through her. She had thought her memories were unreachable, but perhaps not.
And so, she began the tedious work of reading through reams of documents, searching for some indication as to the situation her father had left her in, hoping things were not so dire as her aunt had suggested. Maybe she and Claremont had not thought to look through the intimidating mess of papers. It didn’t take long for Hetty to find a letter from his solicitor, outlining the contents of her father’s will, and the legal steps that must be taken in order for Hetty to officially inherit. She didn’t know much about finances, but the annual sum she was entitled to seemed more than enough to maintain Sutton House. Perhaps her aunt had been mistaken about her strained circumstances, and once Hetty was able to talk with the solicitor, matters would be sorted.
She leaned back in her father’s chair, relieved to know she was not destitute, but saddened all the same by the loss of him. Sitting in his chair, wrapped in his dressing gown and surrounded by the precious remnants of his life, she could recall even more pieces of John Henry Davenport: the rich bark of his laugh, the way paint collected in the creases of his fingers, how he gladly would have eaten plum pudding for every meal if she had allowed it. But she wanted to remember everything: his joys and his triumphs, his sorrows and his grief. Perhaps once she had convinced her aunt of her good health, she would find her father’s studio and study his paintings until she recalled more of him. It comforted her to have a plan.
But sudden footsteps in the hall startled her. She extinguished the taper and dove under her father’s desk as the door handle jiggled, feeling half foolish for her escape and half desperate to learn what she could of her family’s motives without them knowing she was listening.
“Come, you must be chilled to the bone,” said her aunt, ushering someone into the study.
“The carriage ride was less than pleasant, I’ll admit,” said a man’s voice she did not recognize. Cold air accompanied them into the study, brushing against Hetty’s ankles under the desk. “I’ll be glad when this business is behind us.”
“Darling, the second I can sell this miserable hovel and return to London, it will be done and I’ll never set foot in bloody Surrey again.”
What followed was the sound of two people kissing rather passionately. Wetly, even. Hetty supposed having to hear it was her punishment for eavesdropping.
At last they came up for air. “How does she fare, then?”
“She is a loathsome bother, but Claremont does not think her memory has improved at all, to our immense relief.”
“I imagine that would be an awkward circumstance indeed,” the man replied. “I can hardly believe your luck in that.”
“Luck or divine providence, perhaps,” her aunt replied. “Well, what did your solicitor say? Is our testimony enough?”
The man hesitated. “You’re certain she wouldn’t recall basic facts about her own life?”
“Claremont said she did not recall that her mother was long dead from scarlet fever, nor events that occurred very recently. I think we could tell her anything and she’d have no reason to suspect we were lying to her. She is pathetically eager to trust us.”
Hetty’s blood went cold. So her mother hadn’t gone mad. Before she could think further on it, the man continued. “And the story about her madness?”
“I have been planting the seed. It is not an entirely unimaginable thing, to lose one’s memory after a spell of madness. In fact, I find that more plausible than the truth of the matter.”
“I suppose you’re right about that,” he said. “Are you concerned she might suddenly come to her senses?”
Her aunt laughed unkindly. “I told her last night that her mother had been similarly afflicted. Mad as a March Hare, and dead because of it. You should have seen her face. She took to the story immediately, no doubt sensing the parallels between them. Like I said, the seeds have been planted; we need merely water them.”
The man cleared his throat. “You said Doctor Poole has an existing connection with a hospital in Leicester?”
“Yes, the Leicester Borough Lunatic Asylum. We thought it best to have her committed somewhere she has no roots or connections, no friends to ask after her. Leicester seemed the natural choice.”
“Well, Reynolds believes your testimony, in addition to the testimony of Claremont and Dr. Poole, would be enough for the court to side with you. Better still if she rails against her incarceration. There is little the proprietors of such institutions detest more than an assertive, ungovernable woman.”
Hetty barely breathed as her body flooded with grim awareness and her heart hammered in her chest. It was far, far worse than she feared. Her aunt and cousin did not mean to see her well again. Rather, they intended to have her declared insane and confined to an asylum. Would likely have succeeded, too, had she not overheard the plot. But why?
Her aunt breathed a sigh of relief. “She is willful, to be certain, and she will not go quietly, if we judge her by her utter panic from our first attempt.”
“Hysteria will only strengthen your claims to her insanity. Once she is deemed medically impaired, it is simply a matter of naming Claremont the trustee of her inheritance. And with no other relations, that solemn duty could only fall to him.”
“And then we shall be saved,” she said, relief lengthening her words. “And if my son ever bets the Claremont seat in a game of cards again, I will murder him myself.”
And then she understood. Claremont and Aunt Celia were little more than strangers to her because they’d had no relationship when her father was alive. They were conniving, opportunistic predators who had emerged only when Hetty was at her most vulnerable, appearing under the guise of concerned family, seeking the fortune left to her by her dead father.
That was why Hetty had fled into the night. The bone-deep fear that followed her through her injury made sense now. There was nothing more frightening than the thought of losing her autonomy, and nothing more precarious than an unmarried, unprotected woman’s position in the world, threatened by the very family who should have supported her.
That was why Claremont had been so hesitant around her until he realized that she did not remember his previous sins, and why Aunt Celia had been drugging her to keep her compliant. She felt sick at the betrayal, and at herself for falling for their deception so easily, relying too readily on her cousin’s explanations. Hetty had wanted answers, and while his had been lacking, they’d provided more than she could come up with on her own, and so she had accepted them without question.
“You may be required to ensure she has access to certain resources for the rest of her life, but we are speaking of paltry sums, mere pocket change for her general upkeep, I’d expect.” He spoke blandly, as though the oppression and imprisonment of a woman was a habitual occurrence for him. “What of the earl you mentioned?”
“A fantasy, I suspect. She’s a commoner without any prospects. If an attachment existed between them, it will surely fade.”
To be reduced to her limited prospects, and Jasper to an aristocrat’s cold desperation, was the ultimate insult. Hetty would have loved him if he were a pauper, and would have parted with all of her worldly belongings if it meant they could be together. What did Aunt Celia know of love?
The armchair creaked, indicating that the man had stood. “I must return to London, but I await swift word of your next move.”
“Now that we know our plan is a solid one, I see no reason to delay,” said her aunt. “Send my regards to your wife,” she added smugly, her voice fading as she got farther away.
The door shut quietly. Hetty didn’t breathe for several heartbeats before peeking out over the table.
She was alone.
Alone in a house with two people who intended to rob her of her freedom and security both.
And she had sent away her only ally.
Hetty scrambled quickly from her hiding place and weighed her options. She might have suspected it before, but it was clear to her now that her aunt had never sent the letter to Helena. She had likely burned it at the earliest opportunity. At least now she knew for certain that the Maycotts had not abandoned her, and had she had her wits about her, Hetty would never have doubted the fidelity that had blossomed between them all so quickly.
But her aunt had taken special care to ensure she did not have her wits about her.
Thank God she had sent Jack to Mulgrave Hall. She didn’t think the Maycotts would even know where to look for her otherwise. At the ball, Claremont had feverishly impressed upon her that they return at once to Sutton House, leaving very little time for Hetty to get her bearings or make more solid plans with Jasper as to when they would see each other next.
Perhaps he had been looking for her all along.
Maybe she needed to be patient. But after what she had just heard her aunt say, Hetty feared she didn’t have much time left for patience. She could run again. Take another horse and disappear before they knew to go looking for her. But the thought of fleeing her father’s home for a second time left a sour taste in her mouth, especially given her current weakened state. There was no guarantee that this escape would be any more successful than her first attempt, or that her aunt and cousin wouldn’t resort to more drastic measures to silence her for good. Hetty began pacing the room. The sun was only just beginning to rise. She likely had a small sliver of time before her aunt would wish to administer another dose.
They thought her weak. Naive. Alone.
She would let them underestimate her. She would let them believe they had the upper hand. It was the only way she might emerge with her freedom intact. But she had to be careful. She had been blessedly lucky to overhear her aunt in the study. She shuddered to think of what might have happened to her if their next move had been a mystery and she had continued to trust them. But her tendency to eavesdrop had at last proven useful. Because of it, Hetty had been given enough time to formulate a plan.
Circumstances had forced her to flee her home before, but she was in something of a better position now, even with her past still veiled from her.
This time, she would not be the one to leave.
This time she would fight.